


Gold and Greed and Life and Love

by Travellers



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Travellers/pseuds/Travellers
Summary: The company marches to Erebor. High upon the peaks of Hithaeglir, or the Misty Mountains, words are exchanged that put into motion a great change. Can one small hobbit's love for a dwarf save all their lives?This story begins about a week after the end of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 4
Kudos: 167





	1. Chapter 1

ONE

The one thing Bilbo had not anticipated- but probably should have seen coming- was the _noise_. Travelling with thirteen dwarves, fifteen ponies, and a man-sized wizard made for a nonstop cacophony of sound. Footsteps thudding, harnesses jangling, coins rattling, armour clanging. Then there were the dwarves themselves, who never seemed to stop talking or eating (often at the same time). There was a constant low babble of voices- speaking in a mix of Westron and Dwarvish- that kept them all constant company.

Bilbo could manage it during the day. He just pointed his pony forward and let her take him onward. He tried talking with the others, but he found himself quite outside their tight-knit circle. So he contented himself to observing the passing landscapes as they rode.

The true problem arose when they lay down to sleep. The ponies, the gear, the sounds of the woods themselves, and the snoring- good lord, the snoring. Bilbo lay awake one night just counting all the different things he could hear that were keeping him awake. Counting each dwarf individually, he made it up into the thirties.

So it was that two months into their journey Bilbo still could not sleep. It did not help that now every time his head shifted in the dirt he was jolted awake thinking the ground was sliding out from under him. His grip was ever tighter upon his sword when he slept. Or, at least, when he tried to.

Bilbo stared at the night sky, searching for stars. The heavy clouds sailing through the skies kept them from him, much as Nori’s snoring next to him kept him from sleep. After another half hour of hopeless waiting Bilbo kicked his blanket off with a noise of disgust. He stood, shoulders raised against the chill mountain air, and gazed around the camp. Twelve sleeping dwarves, a wizard that slept with his eyes open in the most disturbing manner, and Fíli on watch a few paces away.

Bilbo walked over and dropped himself down next to his friend. Fíli nodded in Bilbo’s direction, passing over a piece of jerky he had been gnawing on. He took it gratefully and ripped off a piece with his teeth.

“Can’t sleep?” Fíli asked softly. Bilbo shook his head and sniffed sharply.

“Too much noise. I don’t understand how you all can sleep through it.”

Fíli laughed and let his eyes fall on the sleeping company. “Ah, well, when you’ve been around it your whole life, you get used to it.”

“I suppose so.” Bilbo passed the jerky back. He kept his gaze on the sleeping party. “You don’t think… I’ll ever get used to it, do you?” Fíli shrugged, an easy gesture.

“Maybe, maybe not. People say we’re a tough lot to get used to.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. But it’s the truth, eh? Dwarves don’t get much company for good reason.”

"I don’t think they’re very good reasons. You’re good, honest people, and that’s more than can be said for most.” Fíli stared pointedly off into the night sky, not returning Bilbo’s gaze. His mouth bore a smile, but not entirely in happiness.

“You’re a good man, too, Bilbo.”

Bilbo nodded, understanding that their conversation had ended. He gave Fíli a pat on the shoulder and dug himself back under his blanket. As he curled his fist once more around his sword he tried to imagine what life must be like for the dwarves- roaming, unwanted, looked down upon by all. It was a hard life. One he was starting to understand bits and pieces of.

He rolled over and, with Glóin’s foot in his back, managed to drift off to sleep.

The next night fared no better. Bilbo’s head lolled off his pack and he bolted upright, sword in hand. The echoes of goblin screams faded from his ears and left him with the quiet night around him.

Bilbo sheathed his sword too fast and nicked his thumb. With a curse he kicked off his blanket and stood, sucking on the wound. There would be no way he was sleeping after all that. He paced as quietly as he could around his spot on the ground.

“You alright?”

Bilbo spun on his heel, hand on the hilt of his sword again. It was only Bofur, who was seated at the edge of the campsite keeping watch.

“Mm. Yeah. I’m, er- just a bit of trouble sleeping. Sorry.” Bofur nodded slowly. “Can I, er, can I sit with you?”

“O’ course!” Bofur shifted to the side to allow Bilbo a spot to sit on the rock with him. “Nightmares, is it?”

Bilbo gave a short, pained laugh. “Isn’t it always.”

“It’s alright, you know. You’ve been through a lot these past months, more’n you’ve ever been through in your life.”

“Maybe. Yeah. Anything out tonight? Or has it been a quiet one?”

Bofur’s eyes lingered on Bilbo before returning to their watch. “Nah. Quiet as all get out. Hasn’t been much lately, which is quite nice. We can all sleep through the night.”

“Those of us who can.”

“Aye… I suppose you’re right.” Bofur clapped a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder; the latter felt it a sudden reminder of his conversation the previous night, and the reversal of roles left a bitter taste in his mouth. It tasted of copper. “But we’ll get through it. We’ll get there, and you’ll see all of this has been worth it.”

“I hope so. No, I really hope so, I really do. I meant it when I said I’m going to help you take back your home. And I can’t wait to see it.” Bilbo poured every ounce of sincerity he had into his words. Some of it he used to soothe his own quailing spirit.

He stood and wiped the small trail of blood off on his trousers. “Well, see you in the morning. Hope all stays quiet.”

Bofur tipped his hat. “Get some rest, friend. You’ll need it.” Bilbo smiled thinly and dropped down again on his blanket. It was going to be a long night.

It became a habit of his. Sometime in the night, he was jolted awake by a nightmare, or dragged out of sleep by the ear-splitting racket of his neighbour’s snoring. Then he would stand up, pretend to look at the sky, and walk over to whoever was on watch for those hours. It relaxed him, talking to the dwarves. They all had something to offer to his mental image of where they were going, or could tell him about the great things they had done. More than that they were simply good conversation. Then he would nod at them and try as he could to go back to sleep.

So it was.

Bilbo tossed and turned for nearly two hours trying to find sleep. He drifted in, every time being pulled back out by the thunderous snoring of Dwalin next to him. The biggest dwarf had the biggest lungs; who knew.

He eventually threw off his blanket and stood. He stretched his arms over his head and felt something in his back pop. He kicked his blanket out of Ori’s reach- a notorious blanket thief- and turned to join the dwarf on watch.

Thorin.

Bilbo froze in place. He could have sworn it had been Balin sitting there, just moments ago- they must have switched while he had been dozing. Well, there was no avoiding it now. He was up and Thorin had surely heard him.

He made his way with slow, awkward steps towards the dwarven prince. Thorin’s eyes remained locked on the lands around them, never moving. He gave no sign acknowledging Bilbo’s presence. The hobbit sank to the ground next to him. The dirt crunched louder than Bilbo was expecting and he winced.

Quiet fell again. From this distance from the camp, only the wind was heard.

“Can’t sleep, Master Burglar?” Thorin’s voice, though quiet, made Bilbo jump.

“Oh. Well, er, yes. I keep, you know, waking up in the night, so I come and talk with whoever’s on watch. Helps pass the time.”

“That’s a bad habit.”

“Really?”

“You’ll get used to broken sleep and you won’t be able to make it through the night.” Still he did not move.

“Well, they’re good conversation.”

“Are they not during the day?”

“Sure, but it’s harder. We’re all yelling to be heard over each other, and someone always jumps into the conversation halfway through. It’s nice to just get to… to talk to them.”

Thorin turned his head to look at Bilbo, who met his gaze briefly and looked away. Bilbo wrinkled his nose and sat up a little straighter against the mountainside. He was still very much the shorter of the two. Thorin looked back out into the night.

“I recommend you get inside, Master Baggins. It’s been too long since we’ve seen Azog. He’ll be upon us soon, and you’ll need your strength.”

Bilbo put an arm down as if to push himself up from the ground. Then he stopped and stared at Thorin with not a small amount of annoyance on his face.

“Why do you call me that?”

Thorin again turned to look at Bilbo, who now held his gaze.

“What do you mean?”

“Master Burglar. Master Baggins. Master Hobbit. I’ve got a name, you know. Everyone else uses it except you.”

“They’re titles.”

“Yes, I can see that. But you don’t see anyone around here going around calling you ‘Prince Thorin’ or ‘King Thorin’ all the time. You’re just Thorin. I’m just Bilbo.”

Thorin said nothing.

“Why won’t you just call me Bilbo?”

Again, Thorin’s gaze focused far away. It was a long while before he spoke. So much time passed, and with so little movement from him, that Bilbo gave up and was halfway to standing.

“I’m afraid.”

“You- you’re afraid?” Bilbo sat heavily. “ _You’re_ afraid?”

“I am.”

“Of what?”

“I am afraid for you. I’m afraid that something might happen to you. That you’ll be captured, or tortured, or killed. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already.”

“Mm, thanks.” Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“I don’t mean to belittle you. You haven’t spent the years on the road that we have. You don’t know how to fend for yourself as we do. But yet, despite that, you’ve survived.”

“Alright, fine. You care about me. But what’s that got to do with not using my name?” Bilbo’s exasperation got the better of him. He gave a huff of breath and turned to look at anything that was not a dwarf. But the silence between them weighed heavy- he felt eyes on the back of his head, and turning around, he saw Thorin staring directly at him. The fire was reflected in his eyes, making them dance.

“Thorin?”

Thorin reached out a half-curled finger and put it under Bilbo’s chin, lifting it slightly, gently. Then he leaned forward and they were together.

Bilbo was caught completely unawares. His mouth and eyes were open, but that melted into the background of the sudden all-consuming awareness that Thorin was kissing him. He closed his eyes, the rest of him folding to fit where Thorin was, a hand coming up to touch the other’s face.

Bilbo’s heart pounded in his chest. Was this real? He wanted it to be- he had for weeks, but never said anything. Never done anything. Everything had changed after the flight of the eagles and he had felt completely lost when thinking about Thorin; now here he was, holding the other close, equal parts surprised and desperate to hold on. 

Then Thorin was pulling away. His breath came fast and was loud so close to Bilbo’s ear.

“I- I’m sorry… I don’t… I should have asked….”

“Mm, yeah, you should’ve.” Bilbo grinned. Now it was his turn; his hand moved to the back of Thorin’s head, he pulled him in even closer. It was even better this time- they both knew the other wanted it, their hearts beating faster as their minds slowly realised who they had in their arms. Whose lips were pressed against theirs.

It was like nothing Bilbo had ever felt before; this rush of adrenaline, this wave of joy spreading throughout his body. He had never loved someone so much. He had barely realised it himself until he saw Thorin that terrible day. But here he was, safe and whole, and with him.

It was like nothing Thorin had ever felt before; his heart was pounding fit to wake the dead, but his mind was slowing and savouring every second he had. He had never loved someone so much. He had not realised it himself until he saw Bilbo through delirious, half-unconscious eyes that terrible day. But here Bilbo was, safe and whole, and with him.

They let themselves stay pressed together longer this time. When they pulled apart it was slow, and soft. Thorin’s finger was still under Bilbo’s chin and the other’s hand still on the back of his head, now gently curled into the waves of dark hair.

They could not help but smile as they did so. It felt like magic to have one another here. Like there was something encircling the two of them, protecting them.

“So, Bilbo.” His name sounded so _wonderful_ coming from that mouth. That proud mouth, that he had just touched. “How was your first taste of dwarf?”

Bilbo burst into laughter. He stuffed his sleeve into his mouth to keep from making noise; he looked at Thorin who was shaking with silent laughter. It was a truly awful joke but the two of them were struck by it all the same. One or two of the sleeping company shifted and Bilbo kicked Thorin, who kicked him back, which only made them laugh harder.

“No, no, nope. I’m not answering that.” That earned Bilbo another laugh.

It soon died and they found themselves simply watching, eyes fixed on the other, just watching and reveling in being here and with that person.

But Thorin’s gaze was drawn by one of the dwarves taking his time to get comfortable in his bed. The smile slid a little from Thorin’s face, and he found it hard to meet Bilbo’s eyes.

“We can’t tell the others about this.”

“What? Why not? What does it matter?”

“I just… I am their leader, and I don’t want them to think poorly of my judgement, or that I might favour you.”

“Well clearly you do,” Bilbo said with a tilt of his head.

That brought the corners of Thorin’s lips up. “I know… but… I’m not ready for them to know. Not yet.”

“No I- I understand. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Hm. Well, in any case, I really should be getting to bed. Can’t make this a habit, now can I?” He managed a conspiratory wink through the love-struck grin on his face.

“Wait- Bilbo?” Thorin’s hand reached out to Bilbo’s rising frame. It stopped him, coming to rest on his side.

“Yeah?”

“May I? Once more?” 

With his smile broadening Bilbo sank to a knee to kiss Thorin again. It was shorter this time, to be sure, but stronger. A firm statement of love to drown out the previous whispers and hopes. It was here now. It was real.

They broke away and both returned to where they had been before. Bilbo laid in the camp with a steady warmth growing in his chest. It warmed him more than his blanket and it was the fastest he had fallen asleep in months. Thorin settled back down to finish his watch. But his gaze was drawn irrevocably to the pile of ginger curls in the sea of coarse black and brown and grey. The rest of the night passed without incident, and good that it did- for if anything had approached, Thorin would have missed it for the swelling of joy in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

That next day found Bilbo in a supremely giddy mood. The previous night felt like a dream, one he was holding close in his chest to remember the feeling of. He and the brothers Fíli and Kíli spent a good chunk of that morning ribbing each other; nothing could dampen Bilbo’s spirits, neither trolls nor orcs nor the promise of dragonfire.

Thorin showed no sign that anything had changed. But that was not unusual for him, as stoicism was his default expression. Bilbo could have sworn there was a smile hiding under all that hair, though.

It was just after the midday meal that Bilbo found himself walking beside Balin. The elderly dwarf had picked up his pace to come walk next to him. Of all the dwarves, Bilbo enjoyed talking with Balin the most; he was patient and kind and full of that peculiar dwarvish wisdom. At this moment, though, he was rather quiet.

“Alright, Balin?” Bilbo asked.

“Oh, yes. I, erm- I was just wondering if I could have a word with you.”

“Oh, of- of course. Any time.” The pair increased their speed until they had grown the distance between them and those behind. The only person in front of them now was Thorin, still a good ways off.

Balin took a deep breath and looked up with a reassuring smile.

“I know about you and Thorin.”

That wiped the grin off of Bilbo’s face. He shot a glance behind them to make sure no one had heard; not a chance, with Dori and Nori arguing so loudly.

“You- you what? You do? How- how did you find out?”

“I saw ye. I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t trying to pry. I promise, laddie. I’d been on the watch just before and I hadn’t gone to sleep yet and I saw ye.”

Bilbo walked without thinking, trying to process this. “Oh. Have you, er, have you told anyone? About it?”

“No, no.” As Balin shook his head a wave of relief washed over Bilbo. Balin smiled again, reassurance filling his eyes, and clapped a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “I’d assumed since you hadn’t told the company yet you weren’t ready to say. And that’s fine by me.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Balin. I know- I don’t much mind it, but he was… he didn’t want to say anything.” Bilbo’s eyes flicked to Thorin.

“And that’s terribly strange for him.” Balin rolled his eyes and Bilbo had to laugh.

“But is it strange? That I’m, you know, a hobbit? Is that why he doesn’t want to say?”

“Ah, no. Dwarves don’t particularly care much about that. Now, if you were an elf, on the other hand, that’d be a different story. But I think our prince is just a little hesitant to let anyone know he cares so much. He’s afraid, I think, of someone finding out and using it against him. Of using you against him.”

That quieted Bilbo again. He and Balin walked in silence for several minutes. Bilbo’s eyes stayed on Thorin the whole way, watching him from behind.

Balin began the conversation again with a gentle tone. “I don’t mean to pry, but if I may ask, how long has this been going on? How long have you known?”

Bilbo fiddled with his suspenders before answering. “Only since last night, actually.”

“Ah. Well then. Congratulations.”

“Haha. Yeah. Thanks.”

“I mean it. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

Their conversation tailed off into other topics; orcs, Erebor, tidbits of dwarven culture. They fell silent again while hiking up a particularly steep ridge that left them all quite out of breath. On the way down, Bilbo managed the incline much better than his older companion, and ended up farther ahead and close to Thorin. He jogged a few steps once the terrain flattened again and closed the rest of the gap.

Thorin gave a small smile at Bilbo’s arrival.

“Bilbo.”

“Hello, Thorin. I er, have some news.”

“Oh? Go on.”

“Balin knows. About us. But! But-” He held up a finger to calm Thorin. The dwarf’s face transformed into one of near panic and he spun around to look. Bilbo grabbed his arm and pulled him to face front again. “But- just listen to me- _but_ \- he said he hasn’t told anyone. He says it’s our business what we do with it. I know, I panicked when he told me too, but it’s alright.”

Thorin heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s- that’s good, then. Balin’s a good man.”

“Mm hmm.”

“How did he find out?”

“He was on watch before you and hadn’t quite gone to sleep yet. He said he saw us.”

“I should have guessed. But he doesn’t… mind?”

Bilbo shook his head and tried to look reassuring. He had no idea how Balin did it. “Nope. Doesn’t mind at all. Said ‘dwarves don’t particularly care much about that sort of thing.’”

Thorin nodded somberly. “He’s right. As long as you can prove your worth in here-” He put a fist to his chest, “-and in here-” He opened his hand and placed it, palm inward, on Bilbo’s, “-then it’s all the same.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Bilbo’s heart beat that much quicker to feel Thorin’s hand. It was strong and steady, the fingers pressing into the fabric of his vest. Then Thorin let his hand fall back to his side.

It was several days before they had another extended occasion for privacy. Almost a week, in fact. They stole moments here and there while walking, but they were always a bit guarded. They only spent enough time together that being good friends might allow.

Bilbo was alerted to the opportunity by Thorin one night, who, while setting up camp, leaned over and whispered, “I have first watch.”

The company settled in, having their usual grumblings before bed. Bilbo waited and watched while the rest fell asleep. One by one the snoring began. It was always hardest with Gandalf; he slept with his eyes open and it was nearly impossible to tell. After nearly an hour he decided enough time had passed for them all to be comfortably asleep.

He picked his way over the sleeping dwarves to Thorin. They were down into the highlands now, and he had found an old log to sit on. The trees around here were tough and scraggly. There was no chance for a fire these days and the wind made it bitter work to sit alone.

Bilbo sat next to him, pressing their sides together, looking for both warmth and comfort. Thorin had his hands at his sides and placed one on Bilbo’s lap, palm up. Bilbo uncurled his arms from his torso and laid his hand on top of Thorin’s. Thorin brought their hands to rest between them, balanced between their two thighs.

There they sat. Thorin’s hand was large, and strong, and heavily calloused. It held Bilbo’s hand tightly, but not uncomfortably. It was so soft and gentle to Thorin. So different from clasping hands as rough as his with the other dwarves.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked. He gave the hand in his a gentle squeeze. Thorin met his eyes, an indecipherable kind of tenderness in them.

“Yes?”

“I was- I was wondering… when did you realise you loved me? I never got the impression that you cared so much.”

Thorin sighed. He began gently rubbing the back of Bilbo’s hand with his thumb.

“I’m not quite sure if I ever realised it. It was a feeling that crept up on me, and then… there it was.”

“Oh, come on. There has to be some moment.”

“Alright. I think… there was once when it truly struck me. It was the night we escaped Goblin Town. When Azog’s mutt had me in its jaws and threw me to the ground, I thought I was dead. I had worked my whole life, paying in sweat and blood to get back to my homeland. And because of one foolish decision it was all over.

“Then I look up and I see not a dwarf running to my side, not a wizard, but a hobbit. I survived, and it was because of a hobbit. Then I was unconscious. And when I woke up again, who was standing over me but that same hobbit. I could have kissed you that day but… I was too afraid. Everyone was watching, and I was half dead myself.

“I thought I wasn’t thinking clearly that day- blood loss, head trauma. But day after day I saw you changing in my eyes. You're not the same hobbit you were when you left the Shire. But you’re not who I thought you were either.”

“And who am I? Who am I to you?”

“I… I’m still not quite sure. But to me, you are the embodiment of courage.”

Bilbo felt his ears grow as red as the setting sun. He fidgeted in his seat to try and distract himself from the compliment.

“I don’t- I- I don’t quite know if-”

“You are. You tackled an orc to save my life, risking yours in the process. You saved me.”

“Well, I- I suppose you could put it like that.”

“I can.” Thorin squeezed his hand back. “And you, Bilbo. When did you realise it?”

“Ah.” Bilbo sat up a little and smiled, pulling his chin to his chest briefly. “That’s actually quite simple. Same as you. When we escaped Goblin Town.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Yes. I was up that tree watching you get torn to pieces by that miserable dog and I couldn’t- I couldn’t just sit there. I had to do something. I _had_ to do something. You were going to die if I didn’t.” Bilbo’s voice grew thick as he thought about it. He held onto Thorin’s hand all the tighter. He stared at the ground, feeling Thorin’s gaze on him. He cleared his throat and met Thorin’s eyes and held them.

“I had to do something. So I did the only thing I could think to do and I knocked him to the ground. I still thought you were going to die. And I realised- I realised, when I was running towards you, just how much I would miss you if you were gone.

“I can’t bear to lose you.” Bilbo shook his head to emphasise his point.

Thorin ducked his head to wipe his own eyes. He had hoped against hope that this was why Bilbo had saved him. Now he was hearing it aloud and it was too much.

“Nor I you.” He placed his free hand on the back of Bilbo’s head and kissed him on the forehead, then touched their foreheads together. “Nor I you.”

There they stayed until the emotion had passed. Thorin’s hand slowly lowered from Bilbo, tracing down his arm to his free hand and clasping that one as well. He found such joy in simply being able to hold hands.

Bilbo sniffed sharply and freed one of his hands to clear his eyes. He immediately brought the hand back to Thorin’s, loath to separate them. “So, tell me about Erebor. I’ve heard all about it from the others but I want to hear it from you.”

All traces of sorrow vanished from Thorin’s face; it was as if a light were shining on it, illuminating him from afar. His mouth began to form a smile without him even realising it. Bilbo had never seen him so happy- save for their first night together. The night he realised just how happy he could still be.

“Erebor. It was… It is… magnificent. You have not seen majesty until you have seen its halls, nor splendor until you have seen its works. We lived there for generations, Bilbo. We carved our history into the very walls of the mountain itself. It was a place of glory. When people in those days spoke of wealth, it was always measured against that of Erebor. Nothing could compare. All was golden, all glittered with gems and silver. And the Arkenstone!”

Something else crept into Thorin’s eyes. Something Bilbo did not know, something he was not sure he liked.

“The Arkenstone… a white gem the size of your hand, and you could feel the power coming off of it. Its beauty was unmatched! Even the elves thought so…”

“But I don’t care about what the elves thought. They’re not you. What did you think about the place? What was it like growing up-”

“We didn’t have the Arkenstone when I was young. It was found near the end of my grandfather’s rule of Erebor.”

Bilbo felt cold. “I didn’t ask about the Arkenstone.”

Thorin seemed to come back from wherever his mind had wandered. The shadow left his eyes and all that was left was Thorin, the Thorin Bilbo knew. “You’re right. I’m sorry- I got carried away.”

“Oh, that’s alright. We get excited about the things we love.”

“You’re right. But you should have seen it, Bilbo. You should have seen the Arkenstone…”

Bilbo went to sleep that night with something cold in his heart. He tried to keep warm with the feeling he got from being with Thorin, kissing him- but the cold came ever closer. It was not jealousy; he knew that one, with its sticky hands that clung and cried. No. This was something else. This was fear.

It was fear for Thorin, for the dwarven prince he cared for so deeply. The look in his eyes when that stone was mentioned scared Bilbo more than any orc.

He tried to reassure himself that it was going to be alright. After all, Thorin had been around the stone for years before Smaug arrived, and nothing had ever happened to him. He was probably just eager to get home, to see the places and things he held so dear. Was that so bad? Bilbo himself was eager to get home. Was he not dreaming of soft beds, and full pantries, and clean linens?

No, thought Bilbo, it was alright. He would be fine.

Thorin would be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

THREE

By the skin of their teeth they arrived at Erebor. They had survived orcs and spiders and Mirkwood elves, clawing their way forward to the mountain. Every step they took made the dwarves more eager to get home.

As they sailed the Long Lake Bilbo felt unease take root in him again. Thorin looked every inch the dwarven king at the prow of the boat, decked in finery from Esgaroth, but his expression was grim. They had come so far, but there was still much further to go. Their most difficult task was ahead of them. They all knew it. They all feared it. Thus the lake carried the solemn company to their destination, yet four dwarves short.

The mountain dared them to scale its dark face with speed enough to make anyone quail. Rocks flew beneath their feet as they raced the setting sun to the top. It was only with Bilbo’s keen eyes and sharp mind did they find the keyhole.

Thorin allowed his first smile in days to cross his face. He wrapped Bilbo in his arms and buried his face in his jacket. As the others arrived, heaving and puffing, Thorin released him until he was only held by the arms. The pair exchanged a look of elation before Thorin turned to face the mountainside. He held the key in one proud hand. He turned it in the lock. There was a grating sound, then a click. Thorin pressed his hands to the rock and gave a mighty heave; the door, a solid foot of stone, swung inward, and the mountain was open.

A stale wind blew out of the tunnel and into all their faces. Thorin breathed it in deeply.

“Erebor.”

Balin came up behind him. His voice was thick and choked.

“Thorin…” But the prince merely smiled and clapped a hand on Balin’s shoulder. Much was felt, all of it said in the simple touch.

Thorin stepped inside the mountain for the first time in over a hundred years. His throat was dry, his legs exhausted from the hike up. He brushed a hand over the intricate carvings laid in the stone.

“I know these walls… these halls… the stone. You remember it, Balin.” His eyes were cast upward, feeling the warmth of long-dead fires. “Chambers filled with golden light…”

Balin allowed himself one shaking step forward. Then another. Then another- and he, too, was inside. He was home. “I remember.” Tears welled in his eyes, misting his view of a hall he thought would never be seen again.

One by one the dwarves made their way with reverent steps inside. Glóin turned to stare at a carving over the inside of the doorway; it was a throne, shedding rays of light from an embossed jewel above it. Dwarven runes surrounded the image. Glóin read them aloud, still struck with disbelief. Bilbo slid between Nori and Balin to look at it.

“‘Herein lies the seventh kingdom of Durin’s folk. May the heart of the mountain unite all dwarves in defence of this home.’”

Balin leaned over to Bilbo. “The throne of the king.” He nodded almost to himself.

Bilbo’s eyes rose from the throne to the jewel above. “And what’s that? Above it?”

“The Arkenstone.”

Bilbo’s heart sank. This was his prize. The one he was to recapture from a dragon, the one that put a light in Thorin’s eyes that made him afraid for more than just himself.

“The Arkenstone.”

Thorin spoke from where he stood farther down the hall. “And that, Master Burglar, is why you are here.”

They grouped again on the landing before the entrance to the mountain. Bilbo’s breath was coming shorter and shorter the more he thought about the task ahead of him. It was the anticipation that cut him more than anything else. But Thorin’s gaze was set once more, and there was no backing out. Into the mountain he went.

Bilbo disappeared around the hall corner. Thorin did not move, merely stood at the entrance with his arms crossed. A daze had come over him, almost a fog. Memories of his youth spent here… the halls, the works, and above all, the Arkenstone. He remembered how his grandfather had gazed upon it with such love in his eyes. Such greed, too- but he was not his grandfather. He would not make the same mistakes.

He would not.

Within ten minutes the roaring and the tremors began. The mountainside rumbled with the fury of a living dragon.

Thorin’s heart jumped in his chest as he thought of Bilbo alone with that great monster- then it settled again, settled beneath the daze of his memories. Bilbo would be fine. He was quick, he was clever. What was one life in the service of the King? Who was one lost burglar, if it meant recovering the heart of the mountain itself?

But when dragonfire lit up the tunnel the fog burned away. Thorin was left as himself. He was left ashamed, his apathy moments ago a stain upon him. His heart lurched in panic and before he could think his sword was drawn and he was down the tunnel. One thought, one word pounded in his mind as he tore through the halls of his home.

_Bilbo._

Bilbo felt his heart beating in his throat the entire time. The dragon… that great beast, all scales and teeth and glittering malice, towered over him like he was nothing. His honeyed words stayed his death only seconds at a time. It was only thanks to his ring that he survived- a ring he was beginning to have his own doubts about.

Then there was the stone itself. The Arkenstone, the heart of the mountain. It glowed with an otherworldly light among the glittering gold. All reflected its white brilliance. Bilbo chased it between pillars and piles and fire and fury. At the bottom of the dragon’s hoard he stared Smaug down once more, the stone mere feet away; it was then that the dragon spoke words to cut Bilbo to the very core.

“I’m almost tempted to let you take it…” Both their eyes were fixed on the Arkenstone. There could be no doubt as to what he meant. “If only to see Oakenshield suffer. Watch it destroy him. Watch it corrupt his heart and drive him mad. But I think not. I think our little game ends here. So tell me, Thief, how do you choose to die?”

As Smaug reared back his head a voice was heard. There were no words, only a battle cry echoing throughout the halls; Thorin had come.


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

After the battle with Smaug the company took to the mountainside to watch him rain fire upon Esgaroth. It was their fault… Bilbo in particular felt the guilt weigh upon him. He had woken Smaug. He had angered the monster and set him upon the people of the lake.

They watched in pain as the dragon raged. There was nothing they could do. By the time their boats would reach the town, it would all be gone in flames and its people dead. Burned and drowned and crushed beneath flaming timber.

Then the unbelievable. There was a terrible shrieking, a noise echoing across the plain. Smaug with his belly of fire climbed higher, high into the sky- and then he fell. The light in him went out and there was a tremendous splash. All went quiet.

A great cheer arose from the company as they watched. It was done! Smaug was dead, all saved from his wrath!

Thorin stood apart from the group. This was not unusual. What worried Bilbo, though, was that Thorin did not face the smoldering Esgaroth. His eyes rested on the doors of Erebor.

He soon vanished behind a boulder. Bilbo scrambled over to where Thorin had been, the dwarves around him oblivious in their celebration. Bilbo looked down and saw the twisting path that emptied onto the stone before the gate. There Thorin was, making his way with slow, sure steps back into the mountain.

Bilbo swallowed hard. Smaug’s words played themselves again in his head. He tried to figure out if the dragon had been lying to twist Bilbo’s mind or telling the truth.

But with every step he watched Thorin take, more and more he knew the answer.

It felt like that was the last time any of them saw Thorin.

When they found him again, he was pacing the bottom of the hoard, a veritable mountain in its own right. Towering hills of gold that stretched farther into Erebor than any could see. He turned when he heard the company arrive. A smile slowly spread across his face; it was glad, filled with uncountable joy, but it was one that did not touch his eyes. Those remained hooded and empty.

“Welcome, my friends, my kin… to Erebor.”

The dwarves wandered their ancient homeland for hours. For Balin, he was old enough to remember this place. He walked with his hands touching every surface he could, whispering to himself in tearful Dwarvish. He took his younger brother to all the places he had known and been before, introducing him to the stone.

Bilbo was one who did not partake in the exploration. He followed a safe distance behind Thorin down deeper into the mountain. The movements of the king grew slower as he walked. He picked up random objects as he passed them; coins, goblets, jewellery. He held them only for a moment before casting them back onto the pile and grabbing something else. He seemed to be looking for something, though half-heartedly, as if in a drunken stupor.

Soon the halls grew quiet save for them and Bilbo could hear Thorin muttering. As the time passed it grew louder and louder until he could make out the words. Most was in Dwarvish, but some Westron slipped in as well.

“Gold beyond measure… gold beyond compare… gold, yes, but the gem is hidden… where? Where is it? The Arkenstone… where…”

Bilbo had to lean on a wall for support. Smaug was right. It had begun.

Bilbo returned to the entrance of Erebor to try and find some of the others. He needed air and he needed help. He could hear the dwarves, to be sure; but they were scattered now. They too were drinking in their home like one dying of thirst.

He paced the great flagstones with a restless fervour. “The Arkenstone… it’ll corrupt him… suffer… but if I don’t… how do I…?”

Around and around he went. He felt like he was wearing a circle into the stone. What could he do? What was there to be done? He gazed out the gaping, ruined gate to the Long Lake and beyond.

He would have to try. It was what Balin would do, and the only thing he Bilbo could do, really. He would have to try and reason with him. He would have to hope against hope that Thorin was still in there somewhere.

He found Thorin again much closer to the surface, but unchanged. Thorin walked with slow steps and seemed almost unaware of Bilbo. It took him far too long to see who was approaching, but when he did, he smiled. It was a pure smile, one Bilbo knew from their time together. That simple gesture put a greater hope in his heart that Thorin could still be reached. It was not too late.

“Thorin! Haven’t- er- seen you in a while. Enjoying Erebor?” He fell in step with Thorin in his measured reascension.

“Yes… it is more beautiful than I remembered.”

“It is, it really is. I’ve never seen anything like it. I can’t believe you used to live here. And now I know why everyone was always talking about it.”

“Indeed. It is the greatest this world has ever seen. Nothing can compare… not even that filthy dragon could ruin it.”

“He did do quite a lot of damage. I mean, have you seen the gate? But- but you can rebuild. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Rebuild, yes… go further, mine deeper…”

“Well, I don’t know how necessary that is-”

“And it all starts with the Arkenstone.” Bilbo stopped abruptly. Thorin took another step before coming to a halt as well. His slow movements were truly beginning to worry Bilbo. It was like he was completely unaware of where he was.

“What- what do you mean? It starts with the Arkenstone?”

“We will find it. It was the jewel in our crown and it will be again. Then we can rebuild Erebor, greater than before… we can replenish our coffers, return our kingdom to its glory.”

“Oh come off it, Thorin.” Bilbo did his best to smile. He walked closer, taking Thorin’s hands in his own. “You don’t need that thing. It’s one gem. Just one little gem out of all this.” He looked around to indicate the wealth about them.

Thorin did not hold Bilbo’s hands in return. They were limp, like a dead man’s. He pulled them away and turned his back. He continued the walk up to the gate alone. He called back over his shoulder, his words echoing off the walls to land like blows upon Bilbo.

“You’re not a dwarf. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

The slow, weighty sound of booted steps was the only thing heard. Bilbo felt equal parts rage and betrayal rising in him- hot as dragonfire and heavy as the mountain- but he did not move. Overshadowing them all was the knowledge that he had failed.

He was left alone in the hall, golden reflections dancing upon his face.

The days passed in a miserable slog.

Thorin bedecked himself in king’s finery- robes, and furs, and jewels. Though all the more decadent he looked, he also looked… smaller. As though it were all swallowing him whole.

Bilbo tried again and again to break through to Thorin. But every conversation was the same; he would approach, and Thorin’s eyes would clear, and he would be welcomed with a smile or a gentle touch. Then Bilbo would begin to speak and the smothering clouds would return and Thorin would vanish. Bilbo was lucky if he parted from those conversations with only cold silence.

The other dwarves were noticing it, too. Before, they had brushed it off as an intense longing to return home. But as time passed they saw the truth of the matter- Thorin was sick. Well and truly sick.

He had them all digging without rest through the hills of gold for the Arkenstone. He would speak only to bark orders and would then pass on. He spent more and more time in the depths of the mountain, wandering alone and muttering words unheard.

The only one exempt from the search was Bilbo. Thorin gave no reason but held him back when he went to join the others.

It made Bilbo feel all the guiltier when he felt the Arkenstone resting against his chest.

He had secreted it into his jacket when he had faced off against Smaug. It had stayed there, hidden, all through the fight and flight. He had only remembered it was there when he watched Thorin return to the mountain, when he heard Smaug’s words again in his head.

“ _Watch it destroy him… Watch it corrupt his heart and drive him mad…_ ”

But he kept it secret, kept it safe from the others. It was a heavy burden to bear.

It was on the third day that the remainder of the company arrived: Kíli, who had been injured; Fíli, who would not leave his brother’s side; Óin, as the resident healer; and Bofur, who had overslept.

The four saw the ruin of the gate and sprinted inside. The entrance was destroyed, scorch marks and rubble everywhere… they feared the worst.

None of them had ever seen Erebor before, and they were completely lost. Bofur ran in yelling the names of his brother and cousin. There was no answer. It was only when they reached the first sets of stairs that they heard a voice.

“ _Wait! Wait!_ ” It was Bilbo, who had heard the calls. The others were too far down, the sounds of shifting gold loud enough to drown out their friend’s voices. Thorin of course was nowhere to be seen.

Óin’s voice was filled with relief. “It’s Bilbo!”

“He’s alive!” Bofur’s voice broke to hear his friend again. Bilbo came careening around the corner, holding onto a pillar as not to fall from the platform.

“Stop! Stop.” He drew up before the dwarves, gasping for breath, and dropped his voice. “You need to leave. We all need to leave.”

Bofur knit his brows in confusion. “We only just got here!”

“I’ve tried talking to him but he won’t listen.”

“Wh- What d’you mean, laddie?” Óin dug his ear trumpet farther in.

“Thorin!” Bilbo’s voice jumped in volume, echoing into the gaping halls. He forced it down with no small effort. “Thorin. Thorin. He’s been down there for days. He doesn’t sleep, he barely eats. He’s not been himself. Not at all. It’s this- it’s this place. I think a sickness lies on it.”

But Fíli’s eyes were caught by the glow. He sprinted down the stairs to lay his eyes on the hoard. From one of the halls to the side emerged Thorin, and they saw him as he was.

He had lost weight in his haunted wandering. His eyes were sunken in his head and they roamed the hoard hungrily. They were the only thing about Thorin that moved with any great speed anymore.

“Gold…” he whispered. The soft word echoed harshly around them. “Gold beyond measure… Beyond sorrow, and grief…” It was then he turned those terrible eyes upon the watchers above.

“Behold! The great treasure hoard of Thrór.” He turned his back for but a moment. He spun and with a grunt hurled a ruby as large as a fist through the air to Fíli. The rest saw dawning fear climb their friends’ faces.

Thorin put his hand to his chest and spread his arms wide. “Welcome, my sister’s sons, to the kingdom of Erebor.”

He spoke no more. His arms stretched out, he craned his head back to take in the riches around him. Bilbo’s skin crawled to see him this way. He pushed the four dwarves down the stairs to where he knew some of the others were taking a break. Fíli and Kíli kept turning their heads to stare at Thorin, their uncle gone mad, but Bilbo was insistent. “Come on, come on.”

The newcomers looked at their friends when they met again, desperate for solace, even for one of them to say it had all been a joke. A cruel joke, but a joke nonetheless. There was nothing. It was not long before they were all dragged back into the search for the Arkenstone. They saw the harsher side of Thorin now; the fogged, idle version vanished from burning eyes.

The whole city was still full of ruins and rubble, with bones and boulders, and here was no different. None of them had been given leave to try and clean up what Smaug had left, and alone it was too much for one hobbit.

Bilbo sat alone in an empty corridor. A low stone bench was his seat despite its deep cracks. An abandoned suit of armour lay nearby, one he was trying desperately not to look at. He tried to distract himself from everything by turning over in his hands what he had found in-

“ _What is that?_ ” The words were harsh and cold, the voice that bore them more a snarl than anything else. Bilbo shot to his feet as Thorin rounded the corner. He was awake, it seemed- and all the more terrifying for it. His eyes shone with greed and malice.

“In your hand!”

Bilbo relaxed. “It- It’s nothing.” He spoke sadly. He wanted to try, so desperately did he want to break through the sickness in Thorin, but nothing was working.

“Show me.”

Bilbo held out his open palm with a half smile- all he could muster- on his face. There lay an acorn. It was not large, nor magnificent. It was only what it was. But that small acorn seemed to change something in Thorin. The terrible light in his eyes faded, he stood a little straighter.

“I picked it up in Beorn’s garden,” Bilbo explained.

Something like disbelief crossed Thorin’s face. “You’ve carried it all this way.”

“I’m gonna plant it in _my_ garden. In- Bag End.” Thoughts of his home buoyed Bilbo. He had picked it up, intending to return home. But then, when with Thorin, he had found himself thinking of home in quite a different manner. Now, though…

“It’s a poor prize to take back to the Shire,” Thorin said. Then he smiled. A real smile. As though this small, insignificant thing being considered precious had woken him. Bilbo saw the Thorin he knew slowly return to the eyes of the king. His heart was pounding. He could not lose him now. He could not. A smile broke across his own face.

Oh, the joy it brought him to talk with Thorin again!

“One day it’ll grow. And every time I look at it I’ll remember. Remember everything that happened. The good, the bad… and how lucky I am that I made it home.”

Bilbo’s vision grew misty with tears. He blinked them away. He would not lose sight of the man in front of him, the one whose smile meant more to him than anything else in the world. The one whose smile now stretched across his whole face with a beauty Bilbo had almost forgotten. The one who, if he returned, could be home.

It was now or never. Now, while Thorin- the true Thorin- was here.

“Thorin, I-”

“Thorin!” The voice of Dwalin broke between them. “The survivors from Laketown. They’re streaming into Dale.” Bilbo closed his eyes to hide from the transformation occurring in front of him. The snarling mouth, the cruel glower, the dead eyes. When Bilbo looked again Thorin was gone. In his place was his ghost, his terrible and wretched ghost.

“Call everyone to the gate,” Thorin snapped. Then he was gone down the hall.

Bilbo waited until the sounds of both footsteps had faded. Then he sank back onto the bench and put his head in his hands. He had been so, so close. Thorin had been there. But he had failed. Again.

It was only then that Bilbo let himself cry.


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE

Gold had become quite the unfriendly sight to those in Erebor.

After the gate had been sealed with a three tons of stone, the dwarves stood guard upon their makeshift wall. But even a rickety wall of broken stone made by dwarves far outmatches one made by any other hand. As they kept their watch they saw the golden raiment of the Woodland Realm come into view.

Elves and men, an army of each, had gathered in Dale. When the elves had arrived none could say; but they were there all the same.

Thorin was spitting mad. The thought of any human or elf laying a finger on his treasure sent him into a blind rage. He took to the wall himself to assess the numbers against them. The others, who had been idly sharpening weapons, glad for a break from their labours, took off after him and joined their king atop the wall.

Hoof beats were heard- from behind a hill came a man astride a white horse. He rode to the wall and all recognised him as Bard, he who had helped them in Esgaroth. He who had slain the dragon Smaug.

“Hail, Thorin! Son of Thráin! We are glad to find you alive beyond hope.”

Thorin looked down upon him with a mix of disdain and disgust. “Why do you come to the gates of the King Under the Mountain armed for war?”

“Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in? Like a robber in his hole?”

Bilbo drew in a sharp breath. This would not end well for any of them.

“Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed!” The bite of Thorin’s words took Bard aback- it was plain to see, even from this distance.

“My lord, we have not come to rob you, but to seek fair settlement. Will you not speak with me?” Thus Bard dismounted and came forward on foot. His eyes sought any opening in the wall through which he might have a private word. On the bottom left he saw a diamond-shaped hole just below head-level. Perfect height for a dwarf. Bard peered through and saw the king standing there.

“I am listening.”

So was the rest of the company, slowly descending from atop the wall. Bilbo was the only one who dared stand directly next to Thorin.

Bard said, “On behalf of the people of Laketown, I ask that you honour your pledge. A share of the treasure so that they might rebuild their lives.” He was earnest and desperate. All could see. But the vitriol in Thorin’s voice poisoned any hopes the company had for peace.

“I will not treat with any man while an armed host lies before my door.”

“That armed host will attack this mountain if we do not come to terms.”

“Your threats do not sway me.”

“What of your conscience? Does it not tell you our cause is just? My people offered you help and in return you brought upon them only ruin and death!”

“When did the men of Laketown come to our aid but for the promise of rich reward?!”

“A bargain was struck!”

“A _bargain!_ What choice did we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food! To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom!” Thorin grew quiet and near hissed out his next words. “You call that a fair trade?

“Tell me- Bard the Dragon Slayer- why should I honour such terms?”

“Because you gave us your word. Does that mean nothing?”

Thorin looked struck. His honour… he was the King… surely that had to mean something. Bilbo saw the tell-tale signs of the sickness retreating. As Thorin turned from the hole he saw the war traversing the king’s face. But Bilbo felt no hope in him.

Sure enough, the golden malice returned. Thorin addressed his words not through the hole but over the wall itself, roaring loud enough to be heard halfway to the lake.

“Begone! Ere the arrows fly!”

There was a cry of rage from the other side and then Bard was gone. The sounds of horse hooves faded.

Thorin returned with the rest of the dwarves to the top of the wall to watch him ride away. Bilbo, as he watched Thorin climb the steps once more, felt like his knees were going to give way below him. It was folly to even think he could reach the man now, but he was done with caution. Done faking contentment at Thorin’s rule.

“What are you doing?” he cried. His voice broke on the last word. The assembled dwarves turned to look. Thorin’s blank expression did not change, a dead mask. “You _cannot_ go to war.”

“This does not concern you.”

“Excuse me, but just in case you haven’t noticed, there is an _army_ of _elves_ out there. Not to mention several hundred angry fishermen! We are, in fact, outnumbered.”

“Not for much longer.” Thorin smiled and the company backed away.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Master Baggins, you should never underestimate dwarves.” Thorin took several steps away until he stood at the top of the stairs down the wall. There he turned to face the company. “We have reclaimed Erebor. Now, we defend it.” He descended from view.

Bilbo stood agog. Had Thorin truly taken leave of all sanity? Had he imagined some magic host that would come and save them from being utterly destroyed?

He looked to Balin for any sort of guidance. But the old dwarf was staring out across the plains, tear tracks streaking his face.

All was truly lost.

The company made ready for war. They had long since found the ancient armouries and picked them clean of the best. Axes, swords, arrows; plate armour, chainmail, helmets. All was taken in service of the king.

Bilbo had never seen anything like it. Weaponry on this level was unheard of in the Shire. He could not have imagined how awed he would be to see his friends decked all in gold, nor how terrified he was at the thought of those thirteen marching against an army. He and Sting felt terribly underwhelming compared to this display of dwarven might.

He stared down the hall to the armoury, watching. The light of the fires inside illuminated the halls in huge flickering shadows. Thorin stepped into the doorway and his shadow was cast upon the entire room.

“Master Baggins! Come here.”

Bilbo swallowed. He obeyed with hesitant feet, unsure whether Thorin meant to put him on the front lines or secret him away with the rest of the hoard.

Thorin held in his hands a chain shirt of white silver. It stood in stark contrast to the black and gold of the rest of his armour- it must have weighed a hundred pounds. He had recovered his grandfather’s crown and wore it upon his own head. It looked quite regal until one saw the eyes that sat below it. But though Thorin’s gaze was soft, Bilbo did not trust it.

“You’re going to need this.” Thorin’s voice sounded almost hoarse. He held up the shirt while Bilbo stared in confusion. “Put it on.”

Bilbo slowly removed his outer coat, then his vest.

“This vest is made of silver steel. Mithril, it was called by my forebears.” Thorin held the shirt between them. It was so thin Bilbo could clearly see through it, and the look of genuine happiness there on Thorin’s face. Then Bilbo ducked under the shirt and slid it on while Thorin held it for him. It was cold, to be sure, but light as air, and it warmed in moments.

“No blade can pierce it,” continued Thorin. He walked a half-circle around Bilbo, eyes taking him in.

Bilbo smoothed the front of the shirt and then looked up in a kind of tired exasperation. He felt the eyes of all the dwarves on him. “I look absurd. I’m not a warrior, I’m a hobbit!”

“It is a gift,” said Thorin firmly. Suddenly Bilbo was struck by the value of the thing he was wearing. None of the others were wearing anything like it… all they had on was regular bulky chainmail. “A token of our… friendship.” Thorin’s eyes flicked briefly to the others, watching from the door to the armoury.

Bilbo tried to smile. Then the look on Thorin’s face changed from benevolence to jealous anger as he stared Bilbo down. The smile slipped from both their faces.

“True friends are hard to come by.” Thorin grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him out of sight of the dwarves. “I have been blind,” he hissed. “Now I begin to see.”

They pulled up beside a pillar. Bilbo saw something new swimming in his eyes- paranoia. Thorin was gripped by a panic he had never known before. His movements were quick and uncertain, gaze darting about the hall. “I am betrayed!”

“Betrayed?” Bilbo breathed.

“The Arkenstone.” Of course. Bilbo’s heart pounded in his throat. Thorin had found out, and now he was dead. He could not meet Thorin’s eyes as the latter drew closer. “One of them has taken it.”

Bilbo’s legs nearly gave out from under him. Thorin did not know.

The king continued. “One of them is false.” It was there Thorin’s voice changed. The hoarseness took on a new tone, a deeper tone, a harsher tone. Like a twisting knife in the gut Bilbo recognised it. Smaug.

Even so, Bilbo pressed on. “The quest is fulfilled. You’ve won the mountain. Is that not enough? Are- are we not enough?”

But Thorin’s eyes were far away. Bilbo’s words fell on deaf ears.

“Betrayed by my own kin…”

“No- no, you made a promise to the people of Laketown. Now, is this treasure truly worth more than your honour? Our honour, Thorin, I was also there, I gave my word.”

“For that I am grateful. It was nobly done.” Almost. Thorin almost returned. “But the treasure in this mountain does not belong to the people of Laketown! This gold… is ours… and ours alone…”

He moved as though in a stupor. He swayed dangerously and growled out his words in a voice so unlike his own. “By my life… I will not part.. with a single coin… not… one… piece of it!”

The dwarves marched past. They were unwilling to look at their king; some turned their eyes instead to Bilbo, full of sorrow. They marched in brilliant and terrible splendour.

The dwarves of Erebor marched to war.


	6. Chapter 6

SIX

Night fell. Bilbo waited until all the rest had gone to sleep; Thorin was in the king’s chambers, and the dwarves were only half-heartedly on watch. It was only too easy to slink down the outer face of the wall and into Dale.

There he found things worse than he could have imagined. The elves must have brought thousands of soldiers and were training the people of Esgaroth to fight, who themselves numbered in the high hundreds. The only part that gave him any hope was Gandalf.

He found the wizard arguing with Bard in defence of the dwarves. The three were brought before Thranduil, king of the Mirkwood elves. It all happened in such a rush Bilbo barely processed any of it. But Gandalf was here, and the leaders of the armies- surely they would listen, surely they would help. Especially once they saw what Bilbo had brought.

Onto the table Bilbo placed the Arkenstone.

All stood in awe of the jewel. Particularly Thranduil was entranced by its glow. “The Heart of the Mountain… The King’s Jewel…”

Bard came closer as not to be blocked by Thranduil. “And worth a king’s ransom. How is this yours to give?”

“I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure.” Bilbo’s mouth was a grim line as he spoke. It broke his heart to do this, give to others what he knew his friends valued so deeply. But with all luck it would soon be back in their hands.

Bard looked down at Bilbo as though seeing him for the first time. Voice solemn, he asked, “Why would you do this? You owe us no loyalty.”

“Oh, I’m not doing it for you.” Bilbo shook his head, a bitter smile on his face. “I know that dwarves can be obstinate. And pigheaded and… difficult, and suspicious and secretive, with the worst manners you can possibly imagine- but they are also brave and kind and loyal to a fault. I’ve grown very fond of them, and I would save them if I can. Now, Thorin values this stone above all else. In exchange for its return, I believe he will give you what you are owed. There will be no need for war.”

With heavy feet Bilbo returned to Erebor. He felt a hundred arrows aimed at his back as he scaled the wall back into the mountain. It was done. The Arkenstone was out of his hands. He would just have to hope that Gandalf and the others would do the right thing. That Thorin would do the right thing.

The next morning dawned cold and bright. Winter would soon be upon them.

The company was greeted in their wakening by the sound of a march. They all scrambled to the wall to find Thranduil, Bard, and the elven army not twenty paces from their gate. Only the moat made by the dwarves the day before separated them all now. Thorin had ordered the bridge into Erebor destroyed as to prevent the armies’ entrance.

Thranduil and Bard rode closer, the former upon a great reindeer.

Thorin levelled his bow at the ground and loosed an arrow; it struck the stone not a foot from Thranduil’s steed. The Elvenking drew up short. Thorin raised the bow again, gaze locked on his target.

“I will put the next one between your eyes!” A great jeering rose from the dwarves where they stood.

Thranduil made only the barest inclination of his head, but his army responded with haste. The first three rows of archers spun, and in perfect unison, nocked and drew their bows. There must have been a hundred of them. The dwarves ducked behind the wall; all save Thorin.

With a wave of his hand Thranduil’s archers returned to attention. “We have come to tell you- payment of your debt had been offered. And accepted.”

“What payment? I gave you nothing! You have nothing!” For all his anger, Thorin’s grip on his bow never wavered. Neither did Thranduil’s cool stare.

Bard reached one hand into his coat and pulled out a gem. A large one, the size of his hand, one glowing with a bright white light. “We have this.” He raised it above his head for all to plainly see.

The Arkenstone.

Thorin lowered the bow. All leaned forward as far as they could. It was the first any of the dwarves had seen of the stone, and it was more beautiful than the stories. Thorin felt a hunger gnawing at him, digging its teeth into his gut. He could not take his eyes from the stone.

“They have the Arkenstone,” Kíli whispered. Then he cried aloud to the assembled army. “Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the King!”

Time had slowed for Thorin. He heard only the pounding of his heart, the slow travel of blood in his ears. All dimmed save for the Arkenstone.

“The King may have it,” Bard said. “And our good will. But first-” Bard returned the stone to his coat pocket, “-he must honour his word.” He levelled his gaze at Thorin. The malice radiating from atop the wall was tangible even at this distance. Not only the king was enraged; all his company, who knew the Arkenstone as their birthright, seethed in fury.

Then something cold whispered to Thorin. His face calmed, his stance relaxed. “They are taking us for fools.” Surely, this human could not have the Arkenstone. It was of the mountain, and he had not stepped foot inside. “This is a ruse. A filthy lie!”

The others looked at their king in disbelief. Could he not see what was before his very eyes? Was he so far gone?

“The Arkenstone in in this mountain! It is a TRICK!”

“It- it’s no trick.” Bilbo's voice, quiet but firm, cut through the air. He pushed himself from between Óin and Bombur. He walked the short distance and came to stand before Thorin. “The stone is real. I gave it to them.”

Thorin did not move. If any could have seen the emotions crossing his face they might have fled that very moment. Fury, unlike any ever felt, boiled in the king. His breath came hot as fire and his eyes took on a wild, frenzied sheen- that the stone had been secreted away from him, under his very nose, burned him. By Bilbo, no less. The one he had thought he could trust.

That struck him to the core.

“You…”

“I took it as my fourteenth share.”

Then something snapped in Thorin. But this time, it was not a thing of rage. It was instead as if a pillar had collapsed inside of him. He sank into himself. All that fire had burned his eyes and now tears flowed freely from them. “You would steal from me?”

“Steal from you? No, no. I may be a burglar, but I like to think I’m an honest one.” A weight had vanished from Bilbo. Keeping the Arkenstone a secret from the people he cared about, watching them toil in the hoard to find it, had been crushing him. So had giving it away. Now all the world knew what he had done and he felt the freer for it.

“I am willing to let it stand against my claim,” he said.

“Against your claim? Your _claim._ You have no claim over me, you miserable _rat!_ ” Thorin spat. He threw the bow to the ground, advancing on Bilbo.

But Bilbo held his ground. He would not turn this time. He had no reason to. It was over.

“I was going to give it to you.” That stopped Thorin in his tracks. “Many times, I wanted to, but…” Bilbo’s voice was breaking. To see Thorin so broken, weeping so openly and yet without any sign of sadness on his face, it killed him.

“But what, Thief?”

“You are changed, Thorin. The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word! Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin! The loyalty of the people he loved, of those who love him!”

“Do not speak to me… of loyalty!” The cold and crying had reddened Thorin’s eyes. “Throw him from the ramparts!”

Bilbo’s head snapped up. The dwarves gasped. Throw him from the ramparts…? But none of them took a step. Bilbo, for all the fear in him, felt a surge of admiration for his friends.

“Did you not HEAR ME!” Thorin spun and grabbed Fíli’s arm, hauling him over to Bilbo. Fíli yanked himself free and refused to obey.

None moved.

“I’ll do it myself!” He lunged forward and grabbed Bilbo by the shoulders. He heaved him to the ramparts, a supernatural strength gripping him. The two dozen hands grasping at his arms and armour could not pull him away.

Bilbo was frozen for half a moment. He had never before believed that Thorin would- could- hurt him. Now the fiery eyes and bared teeth before him told him he was wrong.

Then he was fighting for his life. The metal fingers of Thorin’s armour dug into his upper arms. He twisted and writhed and pushed back but he was inexorably forced to the edge. Within moments his back hit the cold stone.

He was between two peaks in the carved stone, his back flat in the valley between them. He wedged himself in place knowing that the current friction of cloth on stone was the only thing keeping him alive.

Those below watched the scene with bated breath. Thranduil for his part looked on uncaring. Bard was sweating underneath his heavy chain shirt. Were they just going to watch as an innocent man was thrown to his death? Would they do nothing? The dwarves were yelling and crying. Their hands tore at the king but he did not give an inch to them.

Bilbo slid an inch across the stone.

“Please, Thorin, please! Don’t do this!”

“CURSE YOU!” They were so close spittle hit Bilbo’s face as Thorin screamed.

“PLEASE, Thorin! I love you!”

Everything stopped. It was as though time itself had frozen. All was still, all was deathly silent. Nothing dared break the spell.

Bilbo was crying now. The fear- the fear for his life, for Thorin’s, for all his friends gathered here- was too much. His vision swam as he stared up at the blurry figure above him.

Thorin was struck. His mouth parted, but no words came. He could not move. He could not breathe. Something terrible in him was screaming to throw the traitor from the ramparts; but something else was fighting back.

It all came too fast for him. Visions, awful visions assaulted him. He saw his grandfather, eyes shining with gold; he saw Smaug, maw lit with golden flames; and he saw himself. Drowning. He saw himself sinking into a pool of molten gold, its surface sucking him down into the depths. The screams of his kin at the sacking of Erebor tore at his ears. Then a voice- his own, in his head.

“ _Treasure such as this… cannot be counted in lives lost._ ”

Then it was done. In no more than a heartbeat Thorin had lived tenfold in the suffering he had brought on himself and his friends. He gasped for breath. The cold air whipped at his face, piercing his lungs, and he saw.

For the first time he saw.

He saw Bilbo beneath him, begging for his life. He saw the elven army below. He saw himself, in his mind’s eye, and the terror he had become.

“Please, Thorin. I love you. I love you,” Bilbo whispered. Thorin’s head moved slowly downward until his eyes met Bilbo’s.

“Bilbo…” A tear from his own eye fell onto the streaked face below, the waters mixing and running down Bilbo’s cheek.

He was torn from Bilbo by desperate hands. He staggered backwards. The thought of what he had just done dominated his still ragged mind. He appalled himself. He _disgusted_ himself. He looked at his own hands, swathed in golden armour, that had nearly done the deed.

His eyes met those of the dwarves. They had surged in to protect Bilbo once Thorin’s strength had broken, and now they barred the way to him. Bofur helped Bilbo back to his feet. Bilbo was hyperventilating and clutching his chest. He allowed himself to be led away.

“What have I done…” Thorin watched with pained eyes. He had done this. It was his fault.

He had nearly killed Bilbo.

He turned from the company and descended the stairs of the wall. He was no king. He did not deserve their loyalty, nor their trust. He did not deserve a single piece of the mountain’s treasure. He most certainly did not deserve the crown.

At the bottom of the stairs, he tossed his grandfather’s crown to the ground. The clanging of metal on stone echoed loud enough to be heard outside the walls.

The sound of his heavy boots was uncomfortably loud as he walked away. To where, he did not know. Only away from where he had seen Bilbo be led. He did not deserve Bilbo’s love. He did not deserve anything.

Bilbo was sat on a stone bench in a more inner chamber. Bofur was gently rubbing his back while he tried to get his breathing under control. His hands shook violently in his lap. Thorin… Thorin had tried…

“You’re alright. You’ll be alright,” Bofur said.

“I-I’m not. How can I be?” Bilbo tried to use his fleeting anger to quench his fear. It did not work. “Thorin tried to kill me! He almost managed it, too! I’ve lost him, Bofur. I’ve lost him.”

Bilbo collapsed into himself.

“I don’t think so. I think this time… it was different.”

“I thought that every time I tried,” Bilbo said bitterly.

“Something changed in him, didn’t you see it? The look in his eyes- that greed, all that anger. It was gone. I think you did it, Bilbo. I think ya-”

“No. No. Don’t lie to me, _please_ don’t lie to me. I can’t take it.”

“I’m not lying.”

Bilbo wiped his nose. He wanted to hope. By everything he held dear, he wanted to hope. But this past week had put him beyond that.

The sound of hurrying bootsteps was heard. Bilbo jumped to his feet, a hand on Sting.

Balin burst into the room. A smile as wide as the mountain split his face.

“You did it, laddie. Thorin’s back.”


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

The world was too loud. Thorin walked the halls of Erebor, taking every tunnel he knew that would keep him separated from the gold. The sound of his booted feet echoed impossibly loud around him. It was too loud, too loud.

His armour was too loud- he stripped it off, piece by piece, listening to it clatter to the ground. The noise was unbearable, but at least it was over quickly. He walked alone. He now wore only the clothes he had entered the mountain in. Everything else lay behind him on the floor. All the trappings of kinghood were gone from him.

He had tried to kill Bilbo…

The very idea made him sick. How could it have happened? How had he let himself come to this?

He came to a fountain, one that had long since dried. But Thorin knew this place. It had been his home for a quarter of a century. He needed only play with it a moment before the gentle sound of flowing water was heard.

As the basin filled, he reached with shaking hands to cup the water. It was as cold as ice, but refreshing. He splashed his feverish face.

When he opened his eyes, he saw himself staring back. He saw the dark, sunken eyes, and the gaunt features, and greasy hair. But in the reflection he saw also what he had been. It was all too easy to imagine this face snarling at his kin, or refusing to grant a suffering people promised aid.

Or ordering a loved one thrown from the ramparts.

Thorin passed a hand over his face. “I’m so sorry, Bilbo… I’m so sorry…”

He had lost Bilbo. He was sure of it. The broken, terrified look on Bilbo’s face… he had lost him. Well and surely he had lost him, and he had only himself to blame.

But even if Bilbo was gone, the world turned on. The people of Esgaroth- now Dale- still needed help. The Elvenking still desired his jewels. They would have it, and anything Thorin could give them. There would be no war. Only a desperate plea for forgiveness.

He would try and make things right.

Thorin sprinted back down the halls he had come. He pulled up short at the bottom of the stairs to the wall. There was the gathered company. Even- and his heart leapt to see him- Bilbo. Thorin’s eyes begged Bilbo’s forgiveness from across the room. But his words were loud and commanding, with a weight and power none had heard in nigh on a week.

“My friends… I have betrayed you. Those who wish may depart- I consider our quest here fulfilled. Those who fear to break their word, worry not. You are released from my service. You need only stay if it is what you wish.”

Many of the dwarves put a hand to their mouth, or brought a corner of their sleeve to their eye. Thorin had returned to them. None moved from where they stood. They knew their king, and they would follow him unto death.

Thorin saw this and his spirit soared. “It is to you all I owe the greatest apology. I betrayed your trust. I was… blinded by greed, and you all paid for it. I have made you betray that which you value in your service to me. I have…” Here he faltered. He looked again at Bilbo, whose eyes were swimming. “I have done terrible things here. I have wrought misery. But I would see it undone, if I can. I beg your forgiveness though I do not deserve it.

“I have made a mockery of myself ere today. But it ends here. I gave my word and I intend to see it honoured. I have no right to ask this of any of you, but will you follow me one last time?”

A cheer rose from the company. Even Bilbo in the back allowed himself to cry out in joy. Oh, that Thorin was well again! That kindness and love had returned to his eyes!

But it was not to last. The sound of battle horns carried over the wall. The dwarven cheers faltered and died. Thorin took the stairs two at a time to see out over the plains- he had to tell them, he had to stop this-

“STOP! STOP! We will not have-” He emerged on top of the wall to find a very different scene from what he had imagined. The advance party of Thranduil, Bard, and now Gandalf were not looking at him. With an Elvish command from their king, the army turned to the east. There, riding over the hills, was an army Thorin knew well; Dáin II Ironfoot, his cousin.

The dwarves of the Iron Hills came to a halt beside the elves. He could not hear from this distance but he knew no kind words would be exchanged.

Then another sound of horns. This one was less proud, more cruel.

All turned to the south. Over the hills, like ants swarming over carrion, came the orcs.

Thousands upon thousands of them. Not just orcs, but wargs and cave trolls as well. Thorin’s stomach dropped. There would be no peace today.

“ELVENKING!” Thorin cried. Thranduil turned his proud steed to look. “We will not have war with you! We will weather the orcs together, and afterwards come to terms of peace and payment!” Thranduil inclined his head in understanding.

There was another shouted command, and the elves turned to face the approaching horde of orcs. Thranduil rode through the ranks to treat with Dáin. United against an enemy, even these two could find common ground.

Thorin turned to the company that had joined him atop the wall. He smiled, but tiredly.

“This wall comes down now.”

The dwarves busied themselves smelting, casting, and raising a massive golden bell. The iron one that had hung in the days of yore had long since been turned to scrap by Smaug. When the new one was ready it hung in the entryway, poised to strike. Dwalin and Glóin cranked a handle to wind it back, and Bifur struck the rope with an axe.

The bell swung forward and with a tremendous clanging broke down the wall. The rubble filled the moat and created a new bridge for the company to exit the mountain.

Thorin watched as the dwarves reclaimed the armour and weapons they had let fall in their despondence. He himself moved to find a shield when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned, and there was Bilbo.

He drew back. He still did not trust himself.

But Bilbo’s hands in his own were impossibly reassuring.

“Bilbo, I- I can’t begin to-”

“Then don’t.” Bilbo let a small smile cross his face. “Let’s take care of it after, hm? When you come back to me safe and sound.”

Bilbo reached up a hand to touch Thorin’s face. That proud face. “May I?”

Thorin could only nod.

Fully conscious of all the dwarves’ eyes on them, but finally uncaring, they kissed. It was long and hard and full of a week of yearning and desperation.

They pulled away and Thorin was short of breath. He had forgotten just how amazing that feeling was. But a smile, one of total joy, was on his face. He made a promise to himself then. He would return to Bilbo, if only to apologise personally for all the hurt he had caused him.

He would return to him in victory.

The king and his men joined the battle with pride. Their swords were hungry for action after spending a week in idle misery. The dwarves of Erebor pushed their way to the front lines, those of the Iron Hills rallying around them.

Dwarf and orc crashed together like hammer striking shield. The battle commenced with the battle cries of five races mixed together.

Thorin was alive. He had been dead his whole time in the mountain and now, invigorated by a kiss of love, he was alive. His sword felt light as air in his hand as he cleaved orcs left and right. They rose and fell before him, all fleeing in terror before his might.

But a piece of his mind was turned elsewhere; Azog, the bane of the line of Durin, was here. He knew it. Deep in his bones he knew Azog was skulking around the battlefield somewhere. Thorin would find him, and he would kill him. He would end this plague.

The orc horns blew once more from Ravenhill. The heads of every fighter snapped up to see what was happening. An orc was manning a complex system of flags; they changed their pose, and the tactics of the orc army changed with them.

Thorin shielded his eyes from the setting sun and saw the pale white skin of his foe atop the hill. If he could conquer Ravenhill, he could take out Azog and the orcs’ system of communications in one fell swoop.

He turned and saw Dwalin and Kíli nearby. “Dwalin! To me! Kíli! Find your brother, then to me! We make for Ravenhill!” The two nodded. Dwalin hacked his way to Thorin and Kíli slipped away into the melée. Within moments his nephews were at his side, the proudest fighters of the company with him.

The four pushed deeper into the ranks of orcs, soon finding themselves surrounded. Thorin and Dwalin fought at the front while the brothers watched their backs. They were drenched in dirt and orc blood but it only revitalised them.

Onward, they cried!

Bilbo watched with an anxious heart from the gates of Erebor. He would be no help in this fight. There was no need for a burglar here, or a hobbit with a sword the size of a letter opener. Thorin and the rest of the company had disappeared between the ranks of elves within seconds. He could only pray they all still lived.

“ _Bilbo! Bilbo Baggins!_ ” An aged voice carried over the cacophonous sounds of the battle. Bilbo scrambled atop a boulder to see who could possibly be calling out his name.

Gandalf. He cut down one orc with Glamdring and smacked another away with his staff. He arrived next to Bilbo quite out of breath and with his robes covered in muck.

“Bilbo Baggins, I have been looking for you for quite some time,” he panted.

“For- for me?”

“Yes, you, you silly hobbit. I require use of your services once more. There is a second orc army approaching from the north.”

“A second? A _second_ orc army?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear me the first time? Someone needs to warn Thorin, and you’re the only one I can think of. You’re the only one who can slip past the fighting without drawing attention and warn him.”

“Warn Thorin? Why? Won’t he and the others see them coming?”

“Not if they come over Ravenhill to do so.” Gandalf pointed at a hill some ways off, where the orc leader had been seen.

Bilbo’s blood ran cold. Climbing that very hill was Thorin himself.

Bilbo took off without a second thought. His feet passed over jagged stone like it was nothing more than a grassy tussock. He drew Sting and hit the dirt running and kept going. He kept to the edge of the fighting, weaving through the difficult terrain, trying to remain unnoticed. He ducked past Elven swordsmen and warg riders, leapt the bodies of dwarves and men. He choked down bile and kept going. He had to keep going.

If Thorin was not warned he would be overrun. Orcs would swarm Ravenhill with him atop it and he would be cut down in minutes, no matter how good of a fighter he was.

As Bilbo drew nearer he could see others with Thorin. Two, three dwarves- Fíli, Kíli, and Dwalin. Oh, no.

In taking his eyes off the ground, he did not see a fallen orc until it was too late; he tripped and hit the dirt. He rolled over in a daze. Then a shadow fell over him. He looked up and saw another orc advancing slowly, menacingly towards him. Bilbo scrambled backwards. Then he remembered his ring- the magic ring he had found in Goblin Town.

He slid it out of his pocket and onto his finger.

He vanished.

The sounds of the battle became instantly muted. Everything became awash in tones of grey, black pits and glaring whites moving where before stood fighters. But this was nothing new to Bilbo. He stood and, in the orc’s confusion, ran him through with Sting.

The orc squealed and collapsed. Bilbo yanked out his sword, heaved in a breath, and took off again.

He had to keep going.

Thorin was over halfway to the top of Ravenhill. He and the others had taken down orc after orc with ease. There were so few here it was pitiful, really. It made their job only too easy.

The four reached the bottom of the old outpost atop the hill. It had been built by the old dwarves to house the ancient ravens of the mountain. It had been abandoned for a hundred years. But it stood empty no longer.

Bilbo took the hill at a dead run. Dirt and rocks shot out from beneath his feet. He jumped over body after body. He only looked down long enough to check the identity- as long as it was not a dwarf, he kept moving.

He was gasping for breath by the time he made it to the top. His legs were rubbery and his lungs burned. But he yanked off the ring and was overjoyed.

There was Thorin, and the rest of the company, their backs to him. They had been walking in slow, guarded steps to investigate the outpost. They had only just taken their orders from Thorin when the sound of panting and a shout drew them back.

“Thorin! Wait! Everyone wait!”

“Bilbo?” Thorin turned and lowered his sword. What was he doing here…? The others came closer too, all confused.

“You have… to leave. You have to leave now,” he said. “There’s another army… of orcs… coming. Over the hill. They’ll be here in minutes, you have to go. They’ll overrun you. We have to leave _now._ ”

The fire of battle still burned hot in Thorin. Azog was so close! Surely he could find that monster in time, he could- but he looked at Bilbo, and the fear on his face.

Better to live to fight another day than be drowned by a tide of orcs. If he did not face Azog today, then another. But today was a day to stay alive.

Thorin nodded at Bilbo. “We go back down. We warn the rest, and regroup at Erebor. The orcs will hit hard but we have weathered harder.”

Fíli and Kíli clanged their swords against their shields in agreement; Dwalin slammed the butt of his hammer into the ground. The five moved to return back to the plains. They only made it a few steps before they heard a sound behind them.

They were too late. The orcs were here. The four dwarves fanned out immediately to surround Bilbo, facing outward to protect him.

“Bilbo, get out of here,” Thorin hissed.

There were torches seen in the corridors of the outpost. Jagged shadows danced on the stone and metal feet stamped ever closer. There was a great snarling, a cackling echoing throughout the place.

“Go, Bilbo!” Thorin gave him a shove with his free hand towards the stairs. Bilbo started to run only to find a massive orc coming up the stairs towards him. They were completely cut off.

He retreated back into the circle of dwarves. Dwalin now covered their rear, Thorin facing front, Fíli and Kíli on either side. Bilbo held out Sting but his hands shook.

The orcs leaped into the fight, and to their deaths. With a terrible grace they were cut down. A pile of bodies arose around their circle. Orcs came at them from the tunnels, from the stairs, from the second story above them. None lasted long against the tempered steel of the dwarves. Even Bilbo got a chance to take on an enemy; it was limping towards Dwalin’s back and Bilbo jumped in. It was over in seconds.

Soon enough this advance guard had been taken down. Dwalin pushed bodies off the side of the hill to clear some of the space around them. Kíli scampered to the top of the outpost, bow in hand. Thorin looked about them, assessing the situation and how long they could last.

They heard laughter. It was deep and guttural, cruel as a knife. The small party looked across the frozen river to the other half of the outpost. There, standing tall, was Azog.

Thorin’s grip on his sword tightened. His knuckles turned white on its hilt.

Azog levelled his sword hand at the party and closed an eye. He raised the sword until it was pointed into the air. Pointed at Kíli.

“That one dies first, Oakenshield!” He spat. Then a swarm of orcs appeared behind him and charged across the river.

Thorin turned once more to Bilbo. “Get out of here! Get to safety!” Then he too charged into the fray.

Bilbo dashed behind a wall. Everything in him told him to run as fast as he could back to Erebor, to hide in the vaults until this was all over. Everything except his heart. That would not be parted from Thorin again. He slipped on his ring, came back around the corner, and waited.

Thorin, Dwalin, and Fíli charged the river. Kíli shot arrow after arrow into the tide of orcs, felling one with each black shaft. Then white arrows flew; Tauriel, the red-haired elf, knelt beside Kíli and was lending them aid. A tide of orcs flowed into the outpost they had just left, cornering the two. Dwalin called to Thorin and turned back to help.

Fíli and Thorin raced across the ice. It was treacherous here, and any misstep spelled death. Fíli nodded at his uncle and raced up into this half of the outpost they now came to; he would cut down those at the horns and flags.

That left Thorin alone to fight Azog.


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT

Bilbo was forced back by the oncoming orcs. He plastered himself against the stone wall, sucking in his gut to make for a smaller target. Though invisible, he still feared being hit by a stray blow.

He watched Dwalin fight in front of him, a one-man army. No matter the number of enemies that approached he could not be touched; that hammer rose and fell with a deadly accuracy. Bilbo was suddenly terribly grateful to be on the side of the war he was on. He did not envy those brought low by Dwalin’s blows.

Still, there must be something he could do. He picked up rocks from the ground and hurled them at orc heads. Some landed hard and dropped their targets, while some were merely enough to distract. But they bought Dwalin enough time to land a killing stroke.

Tauriel and Kíli had descended to help, but a cry drew their gaze; Tauriel yelled a name Bilbo did not know and sprinted off deeper into the outpost. Kíli shrugged and charged after her.

When all the orcs had been felled, Dwalin leaned on his heavy hammer. He did not know he was not alone. He hung his head, catching his breath and offering a silent prayer for the lives he had taken. Then he grunted, hefted his hammer once more, and took off across the ice.

“Fíli! Where are ya, laddie?!” He cried. A response was heard from high up the second part of the outpost and Dwalin took to the stairs.

Bilbo found himself alone.

He took off the ring again. He found it harder and harder to do so every time. It was beginning to worry him a little bit- but now was not the time for worry.

Now was the time for fear.

He heard the sounds of fighting far off. Thorin, where was Thorin?

Bilbo ran to the ice. He put one hesitant foot on it, then another. He slid an inch. “Oh, this is a bad idea. This is very bad,” he whispered to himself. He took a deep breath and began running across the frozen river to the other side.

The sounds of fighting grew closer; through a gap in the stone walls he saw Fíli and Dwalin, back to back. But he was searching for another battle.

Thorin was drenched in sweat and blood- this time his own. He had found Azog and Azog had found him. The orc held in his free hand a massive mace made of a single chunk of stone. To his stump was still fixed the orc sword, cruel and deeply notched as to have two points.

Thorin had reclaimed Ocrist before their fight. It had appeared to him as though thrown by the very gods themselves, into the heart of an orc as it bore down on him to strike the killing blow. He had no idea it had been Legolas who had thrown the sword, nor why, but he took the sword in gladness nonetheless. To have an orc-cleaver at his side at this time could only bring him good fortune.

Their deadly dance had led them in a circle around the outpost and back onto the ice. None of his kin were anywhere to be seen. It was only the two of them.

Azog swung his mace. Thorin ducked. Thorin swung his sword, and Azog deflected it. Azog swung his and Thorin parried. In this way they fought, always mere inches from landing a blow. Both were breathing heavily, grunting and roaring in rage.

Then Azog’s mace broke the ice at Thorin’s feet. Water lapped up onto the surface, and he slipped. Azog swung at his feet and he hit the ground hard. His head rang with the impact. He barely managed to roll out of the way again, the mace thudding down inches from his face.

But then Azog was stuck.

Thorin pushed himself to his feet. The two stood on either side of the iceberg Azog had made. It moved uncertainly and the two kept having to adjust their weight to stay upright.

Azog yanked on the chain to his mace. It did not move. The block lay at Thorin’s feet, rendered immobile. He saw his chance. He cast Orcrist to the ground and heaved upon the stone. It lifted. He hurled it at Azog, who caught it, but too late.

Thorin stepped off the iceberg and onto solid ice. Azog dropped the mace but the damage was done. The iceberg tilted, making the orc slide backwards, which only tipped it that much faster. There was a splash. Then silence.

Thorin picked up his sword and followed Azog with his eyes under the ice. The orc pounded against the underside, but to no avail.

Azog’s eyes closed, and he was still.

Thorin allowed himself to breathe again.

A blinding pain shot through him- a sword, Azog’s sword, had rammed itself through the ice and his foot. He was stuck in place.

Azog surged through the ice and crashed down on top of Thorin. His sword was to Thorin’s chest, only held at bay by Orcrist between the points. But Azog’s sheer weight and Thorin’s exhaustion pushed the tip ever downward.

The point touched his chest. There was a heavy pressure. Then a fire blossomed as it sank inch by inch into his flesh. Thorin screamed aloud at the same time Azog roared.

Bilbo watched the fight from a distance. He was frozen where he stood. If he joined, he would only put himself and Thorin at risk; he would be a liability. He could not throw stones from here, he might hit the wrong target.

All he could do was wait.

When Azog slipped under the ice, Bilbo could have cheered but for the look on Thorin’s face. Something there said this was not over yet.

Sure enough there was a tremendous cry of pain. It cut deep into Bilbo’s heart to hear it. Then he saw the pale orc spring forth and pin his love to the ground.

Time was up.

He had to do something.

Bilbo sprinted as well as he could across the ice. Sloshing water had made a dangerous surface all the more deadly. He would only get one shot at this. One chance to save Thorin.

He could not miss.

Neither Thorin nor Azog noticed him. All the better. He positioned himself behind the scarred white mass that was Azog’s back. He pulled back his sword. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Thorin screamed.

Bilbo felt a tear roll down his face.

Then he plunged Sting downward.

Thorin saw a glowing blue sword tip emerge from Azog’s chest. The orc reared back, pained and confused. Thorin yanked Orcrist from where it was trapped against his chest and swung hard.

Metal met flesh met bone.

Azog’s head flew from his body and hit the ice. It skidded several feet on the slippery surface, spraying black blood. Those terrible white eyes burned no more.

He was dead.

The body gave out and collapsed on top of Thorin. He cried out again; the orc sword still buried in his chest was pushed in just a little farther. There was a sound of grunting and then the body was hauled off of him. Pain and sunlight blinded him, and he could not see.

He heard eagles circling overhead. The eagles, the eagles were here…

Dear God. He was too late.

Bilbo heaved on Azog’s corpse and it toppled heavily to the ice. The sword arm was still stuck in Thorin. Bilbo mentally begged forgiveness as he placed one foot on Thorin, grasped Azog’s stump with both hands, and yanked the sword out.

Thorin gasped. Bilbo sank to his knees. He ripped his coat off and pressed it hard against the wound. Warm, sticky blood quickly soaked through and coated Bilbo’s fingers. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“Thorin. Thorin, I’m here,” he said. His voice shook. “I’m here.”

“Bilbo?” Thorin’s eyes finally focused on his face. He could not believe it… What was Bilbo doing here? Had he just…

It was too much for him. He was exhausted, and in so much pain. But Bilbo was here…

He smiled. Blood was sheeting down his face from two separate cuts, and some had gotten into his mouth, staining his teeth. It made for a grisly sight.

“Bilbo…”

“No, don’t move, don’t move. Lie still.” Bilbo tried not to gag at the feeling of blood welling around his fingers. A dark puddle was forming beneath them, spreading across the ice. It was quickly soaking Bilbo’s pants and feet.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Shh, sh sh sh.” Bilbo pressed harder on the wound. Thorin’s breathing was becoming ragged. Every breath stung his lungs.

“I wish… to part… from you… in friendship. In love.”

“No, you are not going anywhere, Thorin. You’re going to live.”

“We did not get… a chance to speak before. I would take back… my words… and deeds… at the gate. You are more precious… to me… than all the gold… in any mountain. Forgive me… I was too blind to see it.” The tears rolling from Thorin’s eyes came faster. His voice grew thick. These were his last words, the last time he would ever see Bilbo. “I am so sorry that I have hurt you. That I have led you into such peril.”

Bilbo felt tears falling from his face. He could not wipe them, could not risk taking his hands from Thorin for a moment. “No, no, I am glad to have shared in your perils. Thorin. Each and every one of them. It is far more than any Baggins deserves.”

Their faces were inches away. Bilbo’s whole body was shaking with the effort of staying together. He was blinded by tears; all he could see were Thorin’s dark hair and the red of his blood-covered face. He blinked rapidly and saw Thorin smiling up at him. Even so filthy, even so pained, it was a beautiful smile.

“Go back to your books… and your armchair… plant your trees… watch them grow…” He tried to raise a hand; he only managed to lift it an inch before it fell back down with a _thud_.

“I don’t want those things if you’re not there. That’s not my home anymore, Thorin. You are.” Bilbo was whispering now his words were so choked. “You are.”

“Home.” Thorin’s voice was barely audible. His breathing was shallow and bubbled; there was blood in his lungs now. But his eyes never left Bilbo, and the love in them overflowed. “If more people… valued home… above gold… this world… would be… a merrier place.”

“No. No no no no, Thorin. Don’t you leave. Don’t you…”

Thorin’s eyes grew unfocused. The tension left his body, and he relaxed. Bilbo slid down to cradle Thorin’s head in his lap.

“You can’t leave. The eagles… the eagles are here, Thorin… I love you. I love you.” A tear slipped from his cheek and landed on Thorin’s.

Thorin did not move.

Then a voice. Footsteps came with it, pounding across the ice and sliding to a halt beside Bilbo. He looked up and who knelt beside him but Gandalf.

“He’s gone,” Bilbo sobbed. “He’s gone.”

“Not quite.” Gandalf rolled up the sleeves of his robes and brought his staff closer. “Where was he wounded? Quickly! Tell me!”

Bilbo was in shock. “I- here. Here.” He pointed a trembling crimson finger at the two gaping holes in Thorin’s chest. Gandalf began muttering under his breath in a language Bilbo did not recognise. He yanked the crystal from his staff and placed it on the ice. With a few shouted words he brought the staff down hard. There was a flash of light and the crystal was dust.

Gandalf scooped it up and began pressing the dust into Thorin’s wounds. There was a terrible squelching noise as he did so. Gandalf grimaced.

“We don’t have much time. Bilbo, you must call to him. Call him back from whatever place his spirit travels. Call him back to us.” Gandalf placed one hand and Bilbo’s arm and gave a thin smile, as best as he could. Bilbo nodded. His back straightened and he wiped his nose; it left a great streak of red there.

He leaned over Thorin and stroked his face tenderly. Gandalf was back to muttering his spell; Bilbo tried to block him out.

“Thorin. Thorin. If- if you can- no. I know you can hear me. I need you to come back to me. Come back, please, Thorin. I need you. I only just got you back. You were gone for so long… and then I thought… I thought I’d lost you a second time. But you came back to me. Come back to me now. Please. Please.

“You know, I meant it when I said my home was with you. I meant it, Thorin. I’d give up everything in the Shire to be with you. And those trees- we’ll plant them together. We’ll watch them grow, and we’ll think about all we’ve done together. But you have to come back. You have to come back to me. Please, Thorin. Please. Come back to me. Come back to me. Come back… I can’t do this without you, please come back…”

Gandalf’s muttering turned to a whisper, then it was inaudible, and finally he fell silent. His hand was over Thorin’s wound and his eyes were shut tight in concentration.

“Please Thorin… come back to me… I love you, please come back…”

Silence. Bilbo stared into his glassy, unmoving eyes.

Thorin gasped.

All at once, life rushed back into the king. His eyes snapped all the way open, spinning around wildly, looking for something, anything, to focus on. His chest heaved as his body sucked in breath after greedy breath.

Bilbo openly sobbed now.

“He’s alive! Oh my God, he’s alive!” He pulled Thorin just a little closer to him. He did not care how much blood soaked his clothes, or how Thorin’s armour scratched his legs. All that mattered was the man cradled in his arms.

Thorin regained control and saw the hobbit huddled over him.

“Bilbo…” A smile broke across his face. The congealed blood cracked and pulled at his skin but he did not notice. Bilbo was here.

“You heard me. You heard me.”

“How could I… not hear you? You came… for me.” Thorin managed with great effort to pull his hand up to his chest. Bilbo took it gratefully and clung to it for dear life.

“I did. And don’t you dare make me do it again. This is the third time I’ve saved you from some mess. Don’t you dare. I haven’t the strength for it.”

“My dear Bilbo,” Thorin squeezed Bilbo’s hand, “you have strength enough for anything.”

Bilbo simply laid his forehead against Thorin’s. He rocked them both back and forth, gently. Gently.

Gandalf pushed himself to his feet. This body was even older than it looked. He laid a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, still shaking with the emotion of the past few minutes. Then he was off across the ice and he was gone.

The pair lay there for several minutes, Thorin breathing steadily and Bilbo relishing in the sound. The cold was beginning to get to Bilbo. They needed to get Thorin off the ice and into hospital soon. But for now… he could just listen to the sound of Thorin’s breath. The sound of his proud heart beating in his chest.

There was another tramp of feet, this time several. Bilbo looked up and saw half a dozen people gathered around them; Gandalf and Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli, the two elves. They had in their hands two spear shafts with a cloak tied between them- a stretcher.

Kíli had to pry Bilbo’s hands off of Thorin. Dwalin and the blond elf lifted the king onto the stretcher.

“Be gentle- please be gentle- please-” Bilbo begged. Kíli whispered words of comfort.

The procession headed slowly down the hill. Fíli took the lead to protect from any remaining orcs, and Tauriel guarded their rear. Kíli helped Bilbo keep his footing, the latter of whom was very much in shock. They reached the plains to uproarious cheers.

The orc armies were defeated!

But silence fell again when those gathered saw Thorin, long since slipped into unconsciousness, being carried past. Kíli tried to bolster everyone’s spirits.

“He’s alright! He’s just hurt, but he’s alive! The king lives!” It was a hard sell with the blood-stained, hollow-eyed hobbit next to him.

Thorin was carried across the plain and back into Erebor.

The last Bilbo saw of him was from the gap between Dwalin’s arm and torso. Thorin was brought to the king’s chambers and lifted with great care onto the bed.

Then they all exited the room and the door clicked shut.

Bilbo would have to wait.


	9. Chapter 9

NINE

Bilbo waited two days outside Thorin’s rooms. He watched a steady stream of healers- dwarf, elf, and human- enter and exit the room. There were hundreds of wounded to be tended to and they only had so much time for one dwarf.

Bilbo wanted to scream. “ _He’s the king!_ ” he almost said. “ _Can’t you put in a little more effort?_ ” But he bit his tongue and bided his time.

On the eve of the second day, an exhausted dwarven healer exited the room. Bilbo had fallen asleep sitting propped against the wall. But the sound of boots on stone roused him; his head snapped up and he scrambled to his feet.

“How is he?”

“He’ll live.” That was the dry comment he got from every healer. “But he’s on the mend now. You can go and visit him but don’t-” the healer emphasised their point with a finger, “-let him up. That man needs his rest.”

Bilbo barely heard the words. He had already pushed past the healer and was inside the room. He quietly shut the door and approached the bed. It was not a pretty sight.

Thorin’s face was an unholy patchwork of bruises and cuts. Half his body was wound in bandages. The smell of blood was heavy in the air; so deep underground, there was no way to air out the room.

But Thorin’s face bore a wide smile. Bilbo felt himself follow suit.

“Bilbo! I was wondering when you’d come visit me.”

“Oh believe me, I’ve tried. They wouldn’t let me in until today.” He sat on the edge of the wide bed. He reached out a hand, his and Thorin’s fingers curling together. “How are you?”

Thorin shifted a bit and grimaced.

“I will not lie to you. My wounds ache, and I barely have the strength to lift my head. I am exhausted.” Bilbo smoothed Thorin’s hair with his free hand. It was still greasy and unwashed but he did not mind.

“Then let yourself rest. You’ve won, you did it. You killed Azog. You-”

“ _We_ killed Azog. I doubt he was going to live much longer after you sheathed your sword in him.” Thorin smiled in pride.

“Maybe, maybe not. But the point is, you can rest now. You need to heal.”

“Will you- stay with me?”

Bilbo paused for a moment. A warmth flooded him and he smiled all the wider. “Of course I will.” He gave Thorin’s hand a squeeze, then leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. He climbed over until he was laid alongside Thorin, though on top of the furs and blankets.

Thorin’s thumb rubbed a slow circle on the back of Bilbo’s hand.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too. I thought about forcing my way in here to come and see you, but Balin would’ve had my head.”

Thorin chuckled. It was cut off by a low moan of pain; he reached up his free hand to touch his bandages gingerly.

“Just rest, Thorin. Let yourself rest. You’ve earned it.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. No more arguing.” Thorin grunted in agreement. He closed his eyes, feeling the warm weight of Bilbo next to him, lying next to him. Within minutes he passed into sleep. Bilbo soon followed. Two days of sleeping in a stone corridor had not been kind to him. The two fell asleep together, hands still held tight.

On the fifth day Thorin was allowed out of the room. With Bilbo’s help- who had spent every day since with him- he limped out into the rest of the city. The hole in his foot made walking a painful chore, and his chest burned if he moved too fast.

But he was alive.

Down the corridors they went, dwarves running to spread the news.

“The King! The King is here! The King!”

Many bowed as they walked past. Thorin tried to wave them off with the arm that was not wrapped around Bilbo. They reached the entrance to the gate and were soon surrounded by almost a hundred dwarves. Pushing their way to the front were the company themselves.

Thorin laughed in joy. The twelve dwarves charged the pair, bundling them into a tight group hug. They were all nursing their own wounds but no one seemed to mind it much. Bilbo was crushed by Bofur in a hug, and Balin touched foreheads with Thorin. Fíli and Kíli kept diving into the throng to hug their uncle again. All around them people cheered and clapped.

Then the crowd parted, creating an opening into the mountain. Bilbo helped Thorin turn and walk along the path. Bilbo let the king guide them, acting only as a support. Soon they came into view of the throne.

Ah, good. A place for Thorin to sit down.

Balin came up next to them and put a hand on Bilbo to stop him. The pair stood in the middle of the hall with all the dwarves of Erebor behind them. Balin pulled from his satchel a crown; it was the crown of the king, the very same one Thorin had cast to the ground.

“No, Balin. I don’t-”

“Quiet, laddie. Yes you do. Now more than ever before.” Balin raised the crown high overhead for all to see. “The King Under the Mountain has returned! All hail the King!”

“ALL HAIL THE KING!” Came the cry of a thousand voices. Those twelve around them cried the loudest, and the proudest.

Tears swam in Balin’s eyes as he came closer. “I always knew this day would come.” Bilbo helped Thorin kneel with great difficulty. Balin placed the crown on Thorin’s head. He then lifted Thorin’s face to kiss his forehead. Both Balin and Bilbo helped him stand again.

“All hail the King!”

“ALL HAIL THE KING!”

The pair walked to the stairs and upwards with slow, cautious steps. Once at the throne Bilbo helped him to his seat. Thorin let out a great sigh of relief to take the weight off of his feet.

“ALL HAIL THE KING!”

Balin ascended one step and looked at the company. He nodded.

He began to hum. It was a low tone, solid and measured and slow. The company soon joined in, and it spread throughout all the dwarves. They did not know what song was coming and they awaited it eagerly.

Balin opened his mouth and began to sing. It was in Dwarvish, so Bilbo had no idea what was being said. After the first line the company joined in. The volume jumped and many of the dwarves at the front of the crowd could now hear the words. After the second line, the crowd joined. The song rippled back through the masses until every voice carried it. The volume increased a thousandfold and the words filled the cavernous hall.

Thorin had begun to cry. He put his head in one hand, the elbow resting on the arm of the throne. Bilbo leaned over and stroked his hair. He was relieved to see at least that the tears were ones of joy.

When the song ended, Balin climbed another step. He began it again, this time in Westron. He looked directly at Bilbo and nodded, smiling. This time it was for him.

_The King Beneath the Mountains  
The King of carven stone  
The Lord of silver fountains  
Shall come into his own_

_His crown shall be upholden  
His harp shall be restrung  
His halls shall echo golden  
To songs of yore resung_

_The woods shall wave on mountains  
And grass beneath the sun  
His wealth shall flow in fountains  
And the rivers golden run_

_The streams shall run in gladness_  
_The lakes shall shine and burn  
All sorrow fail and sadness  
At the Mountain King’s return!_

It ended to uproarious applause. A chanting began from the back of the hall and spread to the front: “ _The King! To the King! The King! To the King!_ ”

Thorin raised a hand and immediate silence fell. He considered standing, then thought better of it. He laid one hand on top of Bilbo’s where it rested on the arm of the throne.

“Welcome, my kin. I thank you for your songs and your cheers. Though I now wear this crown, I… I think of a time not long ago when I did so again, but I did not deserve it.

“I did not deserve my crown then. Though I called myself King, I was not. I was everything I had sworn I would not be. I hurt those closest to me. I disgraced myself and the name of Durin in these halls.

“But those days are past. I seek now nothing but peace and fellowship between all peoples. I will make up for the hurt I have caused, if I can. The dwarves of Erebor deserve someone as noble and loyal as they leading them. I hope one day, in my rule, I could be but half of that.

“For now- we rebuild! Or home has been ravaged by war and dragonfire. But we are not alone in that. Those of Esgaroth have lost their homes as well. They were promised aid and they shall receive it. Our two peoples shall come together and rebuild as one, each strengthening the other. We will rebuild! We shall be stronger, nobler, and greater than before!

“For we are Durin’s folk! We are the dwarves of Erebor!”

Thorin raised a fist high overhead. The crowd roared.

He shouted something in Dwarvish. The crowd yelled it back. It dissolved into a great cheering, shouts of “ _To the King!_ ” and “ _Thorin!_ ” heard amongst the noise. It soon died down.

Thorin summoned the company up to him. They took a knee before Thorin insisted they stand. “You, of all people, need not kneel before me. Now, firstly, we must focus on the bridge…”

Thorin’s word was true. Immediately he began giving orders to rebuild the bridge to the entrance of the mountain, to repair all the damages done, and to put to rest the bodies still cluttering the farthest corners of the city. Once Thorin could properly walk again, he himself lent a hand in the repairs. He joined his kin in hauling rubble and sweeping rooms and carving new stone pieces.

The one task he refused to take part in was that of the treasure. He did not trust himself. The golden hoard was overseen instead by Balin, who with great patience and effort counted the treasures and coins and figured out what should go where. The people of Dale received entire wagons full of coins to help rebuild their city, and to finance expeditions out to the ruins of Esgaroth to scavenge and clear them away.

The elves, who had set up camp outside of Dale, received that which Thranduil demanded- a necklace of gems clear and bright as moonlight. The necklace came with its own wagon of gold.

The rest was divided between the dwarves and the royal coffers. Thorin breathed a great sigh of relief to watch the gold pass beyond his reach.

That night brought yet another change.

Thorin and Bilbo had been sharing the king’s bed; Thorin was still recovering, and they both had a bad tendency of waking up in the middle of the night thinking they were under attack. It made life easy to have another there.

The two were dressed for bed and slowly making their way to it. Thorin, though healing quickly, still had some trouble getting in and out. Bilbo helped him to lay down while he grumbled. But it was good-natured, and they smiled the whole way.

Bilbo himself curled up under the blankets after walking around the bed. It had been a long day for both of them, running about Erebor.

“Bilbo?”

“Hm?” he muttered sleepily.

“I have a question for you. You needn’t answer now if you need time.”

Now Bilbo was awake. He propped himself up on one elbow to look at Thorin.

“What is it?”

“Will you stay? With me? Will you stay in Erebor and make this your home?”

Bilbo was silent for a good while. He let out a breath and tucked his chin to his chest. Thorin looked on with pleading eyes, waiting.

“I’ve actually been thinking about this for a while now,” Bilbo said. “I’ve got my answer, but I need you to listen all the way through, mm? Wait until I’m done talking.” Thorin nodded.

“Right. I’ll stay with you for a little while. Just until you’re well enough that I don’t need to be fussing over you all day. And then, when that day comes, I’ll leave. I have to leave, Thorin. I have to. I left the Shire in such a rush, I’ve no idea what’s happened to my house, my things…

“But I will only stay until all is put to rights. I’ve got to settle my affairs, as it were. But when that’s all done, I’ll come back. I’ll come back to you and I’ll never leave again.”

Thorin’s face was a whirlwind of emotion. First anticipation, then confusion, then crushing sadness, then surprise, and finally joy. “You will? You’ll come back and stay?”

“Of course I will. Didn’t you hear me on Ravenhill? You’re my home now, Thorin.”

Thorin raised a hand to cup Bilbo’s face.

“You are my home as well. And I understand your leaving. When do you plan on it?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Whenever you’re well again.”

“Then I may just never heal.”

“Oh, come off it.” They shared a smile. “Most likely within the week. I want to be beyond Mirkwood before winter comes.”

“That is wise.”

“Mm, thanks. What would also be wise is getting you to bed. We’ve both had quite the day.” Thorin nodded slowly. Bilbo laid back down. He looked at Thorin, the latter’s eyes slowly drifting shut. “Thorin?”

“Yes?”

“May I?”

“Always.” Thorin rolled over and Bilbo came in; they shared a quick kiss. It was at an odd angle, and slightly awkward, but it made them smile nonetheless. The domesticity of it all, a kiss before bed, warmed their hearts. Neither had ever imagined being able to share something like this with a loved one. But here they were.

“I love you,” Bilbo whispered, eyes half shut.

Thorin’s smile was a physical warmth beside him.

“I love you too.”

Love was a tender thing, they knew. They would protect it if they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The King Beneath the Mountains - Clamavi de Profundis](https://youtu.be/p7JH-I3iJyI)


	10. Chapter 10

TEN

Bilbo was true to his word. The next week dawned cold and clear to find him ready to travel. For the past two weeks he had worn only dwarven clothes, and today was no different. His old ones were too bloodstained to warrant keeping.

He was getting quite used to the thick dwarven wool, the fur coats. It certainly kept him warmer in this weather. The one thing he refused to wear were the heavy boots. “No self-respecting hobbit owns a pair of shoes,” he told a rather disgruntled Dwalin.

He was lucky enough to have Gandalf travelling with him. The old wizard said he had some business to attend to in Bree, but Bilbo suspected he wanted to make sure his diminutive friend returned home safely. They were seen off by the whole company. They had all been released from service, but bonds of the heart were not so easily shorn. Bard too was there out of gratitude for Bilbo’s actions.

Bilbo went down the line and hugged every single dwarf. There were tears, ones that he tried to assuage.

“I’m only leaving for a little bit. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He came to Bard, and the two shook hands. Then there was Thorin.

He had made leaps and bounds in his recovery that week. The bruises had faded and the cuts were healing into scars. He walked without a limp now, and could go the whole day on his own. But now, as Bilbo prepared to leave, a dozen little worries gave him reason to stay.

“You’ll be alright?” he said instead. “Here without me?”

Thorin smiled sadly. “I think so. I have the rest of the company to look after me.”

“Yes, you do. I’ll, er, I’ll miss you.” Tears pricked his eyes. Oh, how he wanted to stay. So much could happen in the year he would be on the road.

“As will I.”

“I want you to- to have this.” Bilbo held out his hand. In it was the acorn he had plucked from Beorn’s garden. “I want you to plant it here.”

“I thought this was meant for the Shire?”

“It was, but I think it’s meant for here now. I’ll grab another on my way back.” Bilbo gave him a conspiratorial wink. “But you plant this one here, and when it grows, you think of me. While I’m gone.”

Thorin smiled, though weaker this time.

They embraced, each trying to hold the other tighter. “You come back to me now,” Thorin whispered, for only the two of them to hear. “You come back.”

“I will. I swear, I’ll make it back.”

Thorin held Bilbo at an arm’s length, eyes shining, taking him in one last time.

“May I?” Thorin’s voice had become choked.

“Of course.” They came together and kissed one last time. But it was quick; there were eyes on them. They tried to say everything they needed to say in those brief moments. All the sadness, and the aching loneliness that was to come was laid out before them.

They ended it quickly. Much sooner than either desired. They could have stayed there, arms wrapped around each other, breathing the other in, for days.

“ _Amralizu_ ,” Thorin said. Fíli groaned and Kíli rolled his eyes behind him.

“What- what does that mean?” Bilbo asked.

“Come back and I’ll tell you.”

Bilbo laughed to himself. He hoisted his pack just a little higher. With a nod at the proud company of Thorin Oakenshield, he turned and left the Lonely Mountain.

It took six months to return to the Shire. It had taken the same amount to leave it, but this time it felt longer somehow. He put one foot in front of the other only to think about how much he wanted to be walking the other way.

He was glad for Gandalf’s company, though the wizard spoke little. He seemed to have much more on his mind than just business in Bree.

They parted ways just after the Brandywine Bridge. Excitement had built up in Bilbo at the thought of returning to the Shire one last time. He walked with springy steps over the hills of his childhood. He knew these trees, these lands.

The Shire, however, did not know him. He walked through the roads like a ghost. People turned to openly stare as he walked past. Was it the dwarven clothes, so different from their own? Was it the scar along the side of his face, where he had only narrowly dodged an orc blade? Was it the sword and shield strapped to him, so out of place in the gentle hills? Or was it the look in his eyes, the look that said he had seen and done the unspeakable?

Either way, it made for an uncomfortable walk.

As he drew closer to Bag End he began to see people carrying various bits of furniture and home furnishings. Some of it looked strangely familiar, too. Then it struck him- those were _his_ things!

Bilbo took off up the hill, Sting flapping at his side, his pack bouncing wildly.

He passed a hobbit who stopped dead in his tracks at the sight. He put down his wheelbarrow of Bag End belongings. “Hello Mr. Bilbo! You’re… not supposed to be here.”

“What d’you mean?”

“On account of you being presumed dead, and all.”

“I am not dead, presumed or otherwise.” He ran even faster. He pulled up at his home out of breath. He was greeted by a most unwelcome sight.

His belongings were being auctioned off and carted away. His whole yard was piled high with chairs and dressers, pictures and books, a pile that was growing smaller by the second. A steady stream of hobbits were carrying away their new possessions with glee.

“STOP! Stop! There’s been a mistake.” Bilbo forced his way through the crowd and up to the auctioneer.

One hobbit was rather irate that he interrupted the party. “Who are you?” she demanded, nose turned up.

“What d’you mean who am I? You know perfectly well who I am, _Lobelia Sackville- Baggins_.” He spat her name with all the venom in him. The gathered hobbits found themselves rather frightened; this man before them was unlike any they had ever met before. Even those who knew Bilbo were shocked. Wherever he had been, he had returned very much changed.

“This is my home! And those-” he plunged his hand into the box Lobelia was holding, “-are my spoons, thanks very much!” He pushed through the crowd to many grumbles and cries of displeasure. The auctioneer tried to reestablish some order.

“You’ve been gone thirteen months since the disappearance! If you are in fact Bilbo Baggins, and undeceased, can you prove it?”

Bilbo was fuming. This was his house! These were his things! He had half a mind to just force his way inside and lock the door. But no, that was not the way of hobbits.

“Something official with your name on it. That would suffice,” the auctioneer continued.

“Right. Right,” Bilbo hissed. He dug into his pack until he pulled out an old bundle of parchment. “Contract of employment… as a burglar…” this part he mumbled, “-nevermind. There! My signature!” He shoved the paper into the man’s hands and climbed his stairs.

“Well, it certainly seems to be in order,” said the auctioneer. He skimmed through the lengthy contract before him. Bilbo’s smile was a grim but victorious one. “Yes, seems there can be no doubt! But who is this person you pledged your service to?”

Bilbo drew up short.

“‘Thorin Oakenshield’?”

A real smile touched his face, and his heart beat just a little faster to hear that name. To remember the times they spent together, to remember the deeds of the company… that filled him with pride. But none of these people deserved to know that.

“He… he’s my friend.”

Bag End was a ruin. It had been pillaged for everything it was worth. All that was left were scraps of paper and crumbs. It took the better part of a month to track down his belongings. Some were hastily returned when the new owners realised Bilbo was alive, and for some he had to go pounding on doors to get back. After a while he decided he had had enough; he was leaving soon anyways, and if someone wanted his doilies that badly they could keep them. He hoped they were warm in the long, cold nights.

When his house was serviceable again Bilbo turned to the enormous task of getting rid of it. Someone had to inherit Bag End. There was no way he was letting just anyone receive it. No Bolger or Bracegirdle would have his house, no sir- and certainly not any Sackville-Bagginses.

Then who? He pored over his lists of relatives, mentally crossing them off one by one. _Too rude, too greedy, too lazy, saw them at the auction and they pretended they didn’t know who I was…_ His list grew shorter by the day.

He cast his net wider and wider. Surely there had to be someone…

His answer came with the post. Bilbo was setting down for another lonely tea when he heard the post pony go clattering by. With a sigh he went to fetch what letters would be brought. No doubt several more angry hobbits demanding to know why he was not dead.

But between the yellowed envelopes and the rude notes, he found a thick white card with silver writing.

**_You are cordially invited to the wedding of Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck, to be held on the 21 October…_ **

He could have leapt for joy. Oh, it was perfect! A wedding gift to his dear second cousin. One that, as a second son of a third son, would not be inheriting much. He knew Drogo to be a decent man. Surely he would be able to maintain Bag End, and give it the care it deserved.

Tea the next day was not nearly so lonely.

He had invited his second and soon-to-be cousins over as a small celebration. The three of them made jovial conversation throughout the afternoon. Drogo and Primula had many a question to ask about his adventures. It was nice to recount them from the comfort of his armchair, with a belly full of good food, rather than shivering around a campfire.

After Bilbo cleared away the dishes the three found themselves smoking on his bench in the yard. It was a quiet evening, the July heat having dissipated with the sun.

“I have a proposition for the two of you,” Bilbo said. Drogo and Primula leaned forwards to see him better. “It’s about your wedding present.”

“Oh? Go on,” Primula encouraged.

“I’d like to give you Bag End.”

The couple were silent. Smoke drifted from their pipes and their open mouths.

“Give- give _us_ Bag End?” Drogo was incredulous. “But it’s been in your family for generations! The eldest son of the eldest son of the el-”

“But I haven’t got any sons. And I don’t plan on any, either. I’m leaving again soon. For good. I need someone to take over the house for me, someone to look after the Baggins name. I want you to do it.”

“But why us? Why not Belba, or Otho?”

Bilbo snorted. “Give Bag End to Otho Sackville-Baggins? Ha!”

“Well then, what about Odo? Falco? Rosa? Anyone closer in the line than us?” Primula could not believe her ears.

“I don’t trust any of them. They’d pawn the place off before the ink had even dried on the deed. I also think it’ll be terribly funny to watch them pull their hair out that they’re not getting the house.”

“So you’re serious, then,” Drogo said. “You really do want to give us Bag End.”

“Of course I am. Now, I have two conditions. Firstly, there’s an acorn I planted in the yard. I’ll show you in a moment. It’s very dear to me, and you must help it grow. Secondly, I still need to live here until spring comes. I’m not climbing the Ettenmoors in the dead of winter.”

The couple nodded vigorously.

“Where- where are you going again, Bilbo?” Primula asked.

“Back to Erebor.” He gazed off over the hills eastward. Away to the lands where he had laid his heart. “Back to the Lonely Mountain.”

The wedding was merry, the couple terribly in love. Bilbo tried his best to be happy for them but he just felt lonely. Watching the couple say their vows, kiss- it just reminded him of how empty the seat next to him was.

He spent most of the next few months alone. He had been correct; once word got out that Drogo and Primula were receiving Bag End, the Shire was in an uproar. He started simply tossing his mail in the fireplace and ignoring any noise at the door. Soon enough, the banging stopped, and he was left to himself.

He drew up the deed for Bag End based off of the records he had from when he inherited it from his parents. He invited Drogo and Primula over again and they all sat down to sign it.

The newlyweds spent the better part of the day wandering through the hallways and rooms. They looked it all up and down, pointing out different areas, talking about what they would change or leave be.

It was quite amusing to watch them stare at mysteriously empty corners that bore marks of sun fading.

“Did something use to be here, Bilbo?” one of them would ask.

“Mm. Yes, I used to have a table there. Odo Proudfoot’s got it in his dining room if you’d like it back.”

The fading of winter put a restless spirit in Bilbo’s heart. He had gathered up all of his personal belongings, the ones he planned to bring with him to Erebor. He even had a few pieces of furniture that the new Baggins family agreed to part with.

Come March, he was ready to be off. He bought a wagon and pony with the lovely sack of dwarven gold he had returned with. He loaded all of his things into it and said goodbye to his dear cousins.

Then he turned his eyes to the east, flicked the reins, and never looked back.

Thorin watched Bilbo’s form retreat across the plains, across the lake, and finally out of sight behind the hills. He felt a great sadness settle on him. There was no knowing when Bilbo would be back, or even if. The world was a dangerous place.

He turned back around to see that all the others had stayed to watch as well. He smiled to have such friends with him. Already the long years were stretching out before him...

“Back to work,” he said.

Thorin threw himself into his labours. He spent all his time either on the throne or in the great halls working on repairs. No task was too low for him. With every twinge of his wounds he ground his teeth, reminding him of his need to redeem himself. He would make himself the king they all believed him to be, no matter how long it took.

He planted Bilbo’s acorn just outside the gates. He dug around in the dirt, trying to find a patch not made solid by frost. Tending it gave him an excuse to stand alone, just outside the mountain, breathing in the air. Watching the hills. Waiting for a small figure to come clambering over them and into his arms.

The one task he feared the most was that of the Arkenstone. After the battle, it had been returned to the dwarves, and Balin had secreted it away in the depths of Erebor. At Thorin’s express command he was not told where. They spoke together long into the nights, often with the rest of the company, about what to do with it. After a fortnight of hard discussion it was decided; the stone would be returned to the mountain.

Thorin made an announcement to the dwarves of Erebor the day the Arkenstone was to be interred in the mountain.

“My friends, my kin. I stand before you bearing news. A decision has been made regarding the Arkenstone.” Muttering swept through the halls, and Thorin waited a moment before raising his voice to continue. “The heart of the mountain shall be returned to it. When it was pulled from the earth, a curse was laid upon my house and all that dwell within it. It is a curse that, for a time, controlled me.

“It shall be returned to the mountain and we shall sleep soundly knowing that its heart beats proudly inside of it. For we are dwarves, and while we may make this mountain our home, we know that we shall never truly be its master. It protects us, and we protect it.”

The grumbling that had arisen soon died down. Though they themselves had not seen the price of dragon sickness, they had heard of it. Whispers and tales had spread throughout Erebor. So it was they accepted the fate of the great jewel of the mountain.

That same day it was done. Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin headed into the deepest mine they knew of. Down, down in the dark, Dwalin and Thorin took turns carving a recess into the rough stone wall. When it was done, Balin removed the Arkenstone from his coat. He unwrapped the gem. It glowed bright and harsh, the white light overpowering the gentle flickering of their torch.

Thorin felt something crawling around in the back of his mind. He put a hand to his chest, fingers digging into the fresh scar left by Azog. Where Bilbo’s hands had worked so hard to keep him alive. The pain and the memory pushed the compulsions from his mind. He grunted.

Balin looked at him, concern flitting over his face.

“Do it,” Thorin said. “Let it be done.”

Balin nodded. With swift movements he placed the Arkenstone in the recess and began to pile stone around it. Dwalin lent a hand to his brother. Thorin remained behind them, content to watch the cursed thing be buried down here.

As the light faded so did the thing in his mind. With the last stone in place the light was extinguished. Thorin suddenly felt light as air. He had not realised the constant presence the dragon sickness had kept in his mind until it was gone.

It was gone.

Thorin watched a team of dwarves roll massive stones down into the mine to seal the Arkenstone in. Mortar was used to fill the gaps. Soon there was nothing but smooth wall before them, nothing to indicate that any hole had ever existed. He himself carved a message in Dwarvish over the new wall:

**_Here lies the Heart of the Mountain, the Arkenstone. Let its resting protect us.  
Beware, any who seek to lay claim to the mountain and its heart.  
Beware of the dragon sickness._ **

The seasons turned slowly. Soon the acorn was pushing up from the ground, a tender sapling against the masses of stone. Thorin took to whispering to it in the mornings he tended it.

He told it of the events of the day before, and his plans for that day, and of how much he missed Bilbo. He began calling it his Little Friend. Some days- on his loneliest days- he would sit beside the sapling and watch the sun rise.

The spring turned to autumn, and back to spring. The city had finished all repairs. Dale was thriving in the new year. Hundreds of dwarves had come to visit the fabled halls; some came only to walk the ancient mountain, but many more came to stay. All the hidden rooms and chambers had been cleaned and were back in service.

All was as it was before.

A crowd of them- Thorin, Balin, and others old enough to remember- spent a day roaming the city together, after it had been cleaned. They remembered the places of their youths, the places they had known so very long ago.

But still Thorin’s heart ached. He had no idea in his mind when Bilbo would return to him. It could be a year, it could be three. All Bilbo had told him was if he did not return by Durin’s Day in the third year of his leaving, something had happened. Thorin’s stomach twisted to even think about it.

So it was, one brisk September morning, that Thorin was knelt outside the gates, tending to Bilbo’s tree. In its two years it had grown nearly as tall as he. He ran a hand through the leaves and thought of the precious few days he had held Bilbo in his arms. The precious nights spent together, listening to each other’s steady breathing.

As he moved to return to the mountain, he cast his gaze out across the plain one last time. All was still. He took a deep calming breath and turned back.

But no. He whipped back around. What had he seen? There, upon the ridge of hills to the west. A dark shape coming ever closer. It approached and took its form- a horse and wagon, a rider seated on the front of the latter. It reached the bottom of the hills and began its long trek around the edge of the lake.

Thorin squinted against the distance. Surely it was not- but what if it was- yes- yes!

Bilbo.

Bilbo had returned.


	11. Chapter 11

ELEVEN

Thorin sprinted inside. He cast about for any he could find. Dori was atop the inner wall, rebuilt over the years, tending to the guard. “DORI!” he cried. The dwarf leaned over and looked down. “Gather the others! Bilbo is back!”

A grin split Dori’s face and he took off running. Thorin dashed back outside. He had to be there when he arrived.

He stood impatiently as the wagon drew closer. He had been right; sure as stone, it was Bilbo’s face staring back at him. One by one the company arrived next to him until all thirteen stood proud and waiting.

With a hundred yards to spare Bilbo could take it no more. He leapt from the wagon and sprinted the distance remaining; he slammed into Thorin at full speed. Thorin wrapped him in his arms and spun him in a circle, laughing the whole way. Oh, he had missed this!

Bilbo’s feet returned to the ground and he kissed Thorin hard. He dug his hands into that long hair and pulled him close. Two years of waiting and longing had come to a close. Their kiss was a promise, a reiteration of what had been said at their parting. It was a promise to never leave. It was a promise to spend the rest of their lives together in earnest vulnerability.

They tasted salt. Neither knew whose it was. Both were crying. Then they were laughing, embracing tight again. Just feeling the other there.

“Leave some for the rest of us!” Kíli called. Bilbo gently extracted himself from Thorin’s arms. The dwarves raced in to bury them in a hug. Everyone wanted a piece of Bilbo, to lay a hand on his hair or shoulders. He kissed their foreheads and laughed and cried to his content.

He was home. He was home.

They unloaded his furniture and piled it in the king’s chambers. Bilbo told them all not to worry, he would sort it out later. Just pile it in.

With that done Thorin gave him a tour of the great reborn city. He held Bilbo’s hand and gently guided him throughout its shining halls. They could visit all of it now, the mountain of gold and hills of rubble having long since been cleared away. Thorin showed him the halls of his youth, where he used to play, and where he learned to hold a sword, and where he forged his first piece. Bilbo tried to pay attention but his mind was drawn ever away to Thorin next to him. His eyes, his hand, his mouth moving, his voice speaking words he barely heard... it was almost too much to believe that he was here.

Their final stop was the resting place of the Arkenstone. They approached with soft voices. It was so quiet down here, all who came near treading delicately around the sacred site.

Bilbo ran his hand over the carved runes in the wall. “You did this?”

“I did. Balin, Dwalin, and I sealed the stone away for good. I carved the words here... a warning to all those who would seek it. To all those who would repeat my folly.”

Bilbo turned, sadness on his face. “You’re still on that? Thorin, what happened was not your fault. You were sick. You were sick, but you got better, and from what I can tell you’ve more than made up for your actions.” He gestured around them at the bustling city.

Thorin bowed his head. “I hope, one day, I can repent for all that I did.”

“You have! A thousand times over, you have. This is a wound you refuse to let heal. Please, let it. I don’t want to watch you suffer.”

“For the things I said, the things I did, the things... I almost did, I cannot be forgiven.”

“Thorin.” Bilbo walked to him and cupped his face in his hands. “I forgive you.”

Thorin pulled one of Bilbo’s hands up and kissed it. “That is all I could ever hope for.”

Thorin had to return to his duties, and Bilbo busied himself with straightening out the furniture he had brought. It stood quite in contrast with the solid, heavy dwarven pieces already there, but he made it work. His favourite was placing his armchair next to Thorin’s by the massive fireplace.

They reconvened that night at dinner. There was a feast to be had in his honour, one he attended in great excitement. He had the seat of honour at Thorin’s right side. All the company was seated on benches closest to them, making for a rowdy and jovial camaraderie all through the night. A hundred other dwarves filled the tables down the hall.

Thorin stood and raised a glass. Quiet fell.

“Today, a hero has returned to us!” Already Bilbo felt his face grow hot. “When he joined the company of Thorin Oakenshield, he was but a burglar. He was an outsider to us, hired help. But over the seven short months he spent with us, he became more.

“He performed acts of bravery I could not have asked from the bravest among us here. He continued to surprise us, saving our sorry hides over and over again from orcs and elves and men and dragons. None of us would be standing here today without him. I... would certainly not be here.

“For it was Bilbo himself that saved me from the jaws of death when I was wounded. It was his love for me, and mine for him, that saved me. And I could not be more thankful to have him at my side today. Tonight, we honour a hero!

“Hail, Bilbo Strongheart!”

“HAIL, BILBO STRONGHEART!” The roar of voices filled the hall, and was followed by the dwarves drinking deep of their goblets. Bilbo himself was blushing furiously.

Thorin sat and the feast began. He reached for a plate and glanced bemusedly at Bilbo, who was giving him quite the peculiar look.

“Bilbo Strongheart?”

Thorin grinned. “Do you like it?”

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“It is an epithet. All the great heroes receive them when they perform their great deeds.” Thorin poured them both wine from a surprisingly delicate metal decanter.

“But that’s just it. I’m not a great hero.”

“No? Look around you. None would be here today were you not a hero. It was your actions, great and small, that led us here.”

“Maybe, but I’d hardly call them heroic.” Bilbo poked idly at something Glóin next to him had put on his plate. “I was a burglar. I snuck around, I was quiet. I stole and I lied. Hardly the stuff of legend.”

“You faced down a dragon. You fought an army of orcs. And you saved the life of the king.”

Bilbo was silent. He had tucked his chin to his chest and was glaring at Thorin but he knew he had lost.

It appeared he would have to get used to the name.

The feast lasted well into the night, but all too soon they turned to bed.

It was quiet in the king’s chambers. Thorin and Bilbo readied themselves for sleep never taking their eyes off the other. It seemed a miracle they were both here, happy and hale, simply combing their hair or laying out their nightgown.

Happy domesticity is a beautiful sight.

Bilbo watched from where he was folding his dirty travel clothes as Thorin removed all the thick dwarven layers he wore. First the outer fur coat, then the scale shirt, then finally the wool tunic- Bilbo breathed in sharply through his teeth.

He had never seen so many scars.

Some were thin and white, some long and crooked and telling of great pain. Thorin heard the noise and turned; it was then Bilbo could see the still-reddened marks of Azog’s blade. Two thick lines, laid end to end, just below the heart.

Bilbo had felt Thorin’s hands, and beheld his face and the scars left there. But they were so minor, so trivial compared to ones that might have taken Thorin’s life had they gone just a little deeper.

“Are you alright?” Thorin called out gently, his voice soft to calm the worry written on Bilbo’s face.

Bilbo came over with hesitant steps. His eyes never met Thorin’s. “What happened? Do all dwarves look like this?”

Thorin felt suddenly self-conscious of his old wounds. Bilbo had never seen him without a shirt; even when they had shared a bed all those years ago, he had been bound in bandages and the worst kept hidden. Now it was open for him to see.

“For the most part, yes. Our lives have not been easy.”

Bilbo laid a gentle finger on the lines left by Azog, where his hands had been once before. “That’s it, then. Isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“It’s healed well.”

“It has- I feel no pain anymore. Soon it will fade entirely, and match the others.”

“But why hasn’t it faded yet? Mine did, you can barely see it now…”

“I suspect Azog’s blade is the reason. It was a fell blade, one made in an evil place. So I must bear his mark a little longer.” Thorin raised a hand to push Bilbo’s hair from his forehead; there, by the right temple, was a raised line just over an inch long. “Yours has faded.”

“Mm. Took long enough. I was odd enough as it was in the Shire without that angry red line on my face.”

“I think it makes you look brave.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Tell that to my relatives.”

“One day, perhaps.” Thorin leaned over and kissed Bilbo’s forehead. “Go to bed. I’ll only be a moment.”

Sure enough, they soon lay side by side under the blankets. Their shared warmth made them drowsy within moments.

They each lay with a hand on the other, Thorin feeling Bilbo’s chest rise and fall, Bilbo stroking Thorin’s cheek. It was easy to forget they had only returned to each other that day. It was easy to forget the mud still staining the hems of Bilbo’s pants, and Thorin’s one-sided conversations with the young oak tree.

All that fell away to the sensation of another beside them.

In their minds, as they slowly slipped into sleep, they began to see the long years ahead of them. They had barely dared dream of it for fear of a terrible fate befalling one of them during their time apart. But now, that time had ended. They had all their years to spend together, days passing with gentle touches and soft words, in quiet companionship that spoke volumes.

Love was a tender thing, they knew. They would free it if they could.


	12. Chapter 12

TWELVE

Days became weeks, months became years. Bilbo fell into step with dwarven life far quicker than he would have thought. After spending so much time with the company, it felt so… natural. Like this was where he had been meant to be all along.

He met Dáin II Ironfoot, properly this time. They shook hands and Bilbo felt his bones crunch beneath that grasp. But the dwarf was ever thankful for Bilbo’s actions those years ago, the ones that ensured he still had a cousin to bother.

He met Dís, Thorin’s younger sister, mother of Fíli and Kíli. He could instantly see the family resemblance between the four of them. She too nearly broke his hand shaking it. He saw in her eyes much more than she said to him, her overflowing gratitude to return to the mountain and still have a brother. Her love reached further than Dáin’s- it was she who had grown up with Thorin, sparred with him, helped him, counselled him. She made it known that no deed could ever repay her debt. Bilbo made it known there was no need. Thorin’s life was more than enough for him.

Other parts of his life changed slower but no less drastically.

Furs replaced linens, swords replaced silverware. His hair grew longer. He let Thorin weave several braids into it, the king adorning his work with shining beads. His hands grew rough and calloused from days spent learning to craft metal. He greatly enjoyed the challenge of shaping a thing out of steel or silver. Though he never grew particularly large or strong, he did learn to defend himself, sparring with Fíli at times in a courtyard, or struggling to draw a bow with Kíli on the outer walls.

Yet for all his joining of dwarven culture, there were things he could not leave behind. He found himself bringing a kind of gentleness to the people around him. Though much of being a dwarf relied on being harsh and tough, having a hobbit around allowed many to… relax. They saw their own inherent tenderness as more of a strength than a thing to ignore.

Bilbo brought Shire recipes to the kitchens, and tried his hand at his mother’s sweet barley bread with what he had around him. He asked a weaver to repair his torn coat, and spent a day helping them learn to spin thinner, finer threads. He introduced the dwarves to the concept of tea.

But by far, one of the strangest changes for Bilbo was that to his name.

He had become Bilbo Strongheart. Within a day he was heralded thusly by most he met. The company passed it around somewhat jokingly at first, but then it took. It was a great change, to be sure, but over time it was one he began to enjoy. He took pride in being one of the company of Thorin Oakenshield, and his name was a way to remember his time there by. It was like his scar, or his sword. It had become a part of him.

Many simply addressed him as Strongheart- they knew him as a great figure, but having no title, they defaulted to his new moniker. All at once more knew him thus than as a Baggins.

Soon enough he began to wonder if he even was Bilbo Baggins anymore. Was that hobbit still there? Did the hobbit who leapt a fence in the Shire with not a little trepidation still live in him? The one who had insisted on turning back over a handkerchief, who had tried to depart after a run-in with a band of trolls?

Yet at a dozen points throughout the day he was reminded that hobbit still lived.

It was in the way he preferred his armchair to horseback riding. It was in the way he still rolled his eyes when the dwarves told a story while inhaling their food. It was in the way he protected his garden as fiercely as anything, the one that Thorin helped him plant.

It was in the way he loved.

The years passed in a blissful daze and soon a decade had gone by. Bilbo’s tree now towered far over their heads; its upper branches grazed the ramparts of the outer wall. The others Bilbo had planted were not far behind. There was a row of them now, decorating the sides of the road into the city of Erebor; beech and pine and elm and maple, over a dozen of them, all gathered from across the world and brought here.

Thorin and Bilbo spent their mornings together atop the wall watching the sun rise and scatter its rays across the Long Lake. The wind made the trees below them dance. Birdsong was heard again, thanks to the branches that provided them homes.

They would simply stand there, hands resting on the other’s, breathing in harmony and letting the world wake around them. No words needed to be spoken. They knew all that could be said, the love and the joy between them filling the silence and saying more than they ever could with their quiet voices.

One day, however, that silence was broken. Bilbo had closed his eyes to better feel the sun warm his face. He heard the tell-tale noise of cloth on stone, and felt Thorin’s hand shift under his own. He opened his eyes to find Thorin watching him. He wore a gentle smile, but behind his eyes there was something stirring. Excitement? Apprehension? Bilbo could not tell.

“What is it?” he asked.

Thorin cleared his throat before speaking. Apprehension it was, then.

“Bilbo. To me, you are the dearest thing in the world. I cannot imagine my life without you. Living all my days with you at my side- it has been the greatest gift I have ever received. I never want it to end. But I still feel, at times, apart from you. When I sit upon my throne, I sit alone. You are absent from me and my heart aches.

“So I would ask you, my love; will you join me there? Will you let me care for you for all my years, as you have cared for me? Will you marry me, and spend all your years at my side, as I will spend at yours?”

Bilbo was frozen. His mind moved like a stampede of horses yet no words he spoke. It was so sudden, he was caught so unawares.

But then his mind caught up to his heart and he knew. His face bore the largest smile it had ever known, his eyes misting over and tears falling fast.

“Yes. Yes, of course yes, a thousand times yes!”

He sprang forwards and into Thorin’s arms. He buried his face in the other’s neck, breathing him in, squeezing him as tight as he could. Thorin in turn did the same and Bilbo felt him laugh more than he heard it.

Dear God, he never wanted to let go.

They cried tears of joy, the water flowing freely down their faces. They kissed over and over again, ever smiling, ever laughing.

Bilbo opened his eyes and lifted them to the sky, the rest of him still buried in Thorin. He thanked the world in endless measures for what he held in his arms. For the love he had received, and the life he had lived, and all the years to come. He was more at home now than he had ever felt in the Shire, more at home with this one man at his side than with all the things he had ever possessed.

All his nagging fears of not belonging or fitting in vanished under the power of his love. He had fought his way across the world three times to be here.

He knew that this was exactly where he was meant to be.

“We have to invite them.”

“Why?”

“They’re your family.”

“They’re not coming halfway across the continent to watch their estranged cousin get married to a dwarf.”

“We’re still inviting them.”

Thorin and Bilbo were seated next to each other at Bilbo’s old oak desk. They had a sheet of paper in front of them covered in names, half scribbled out, several with notes next to them such as ‘courtesy invitation’ or ‘unknown location.’

They had broken the news firstly to Balin, who promptly burst into tears and threw himself at the pair. They tracked down the rest of the company and told them one by one until all twelve dwarves had thumped them on the back and wished them all the happiness in the world. Their first question was when the wedding would be held- and thus the problems arose.

How to host a wedding between the King Beneath the Mountain and a hobbit? Thus were found Thorin and Bilbo attempting to create a guest list.

Thorin’s part was easy; most everyone he cared to invite was in the mountain already. Bilbo, however, found the number of people he desired there dwindling by the minute. They were all half the world away anyways.

But Thorin gently persuaded him to at least invite a handful of hobbits.

The one person they wanted there the most, but that they had no idea how to contact, was Gandalf. The wizard was elusive as ever.

Invitations were sent out a year and a half in advance to the Shire. It took a messenger on horseback far shorter to arrive there than a hobbit on foot, but still the time was considerable.

**_You are cordially invited to the wedding of Thorin Oakenshield, King Beneath the Mountain; and Bilbo Baggins, Strongheart. It is to be held on the 15th of November, 2953 of the Third Age (1353 by Shire Reckoning), in the city of Erebor of the Lonely Mountain._ **

With six months until the wedding, they assumed they had all the responses they were going to receive. Thus began the enormous task of truly planning the wedding of the king. All was prepared with great excitement; the decorations, the food, the gifts to be exchanged, the clothes of the couple to be wed.

Bilbo realised he still had quite a bit to learn about dwarven culture as the day inched closer. Balin helped him as much as he could, learning what was expected of him and what words he would have to say.

The greatest challenge was the ring. Dwarves were expected to forge their own rings for the ceremony. Though he had made leaps and bounds over the years, he was still far from an expert. How could he possibly make something good enough for his own wedding?

It took weeks for him to figure it out. The pair passed each other frequently in the forges, each shifting their position to hide their work and smiling out of the side of their mouth.

Ever Bilbo laboured, changing the design, starting over again and again. He could never quite make what he saw in his mind’s eye appear in the metal before him. The days grew shorter and he felt the heavy weight of expectation upon his shoulders. He wanted to be proud of the thing he made, the thing Thorin would wear upon his finger for all his days.

He spent every free moment he had in the forges. He would not mess this up. He could do it. He had to. He had to.

The 15th of November dawned clear and bright.

Bilbo had spent the night in the forges, working. Thorin had finished weeks ago. Bilbo dragged himself up to his chambers and wiped the smoke and sweat off of himself. It took two tries to get all the metal shavings out of his hair.

Save for him, their rooms were empty; Thorin would be down at the bath house being washed, trimmed, and anointed. His turn would come later. So he waited, taking a small breakfast of bread and meat.

Erebor had filled like a river in flood these past weeks. Dwarves from across the world had come to give their blessing to the king. A good number of hobbits roamed the halls as well, though not as many as had been invited. There were so many guests they had spilled into Dale. The town greatly appreciated the travellers staying in their inns and buying their food.

There was a knock at the door. In came Thorin and two attendants. Two more soon followed to usher Bilbo out of the room. The couple exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek before they parted once more.

Thorin was dressed in clothes specially woven for that day. They were all silver and gold and grey; the colours of the stone from which dwarves had sprung, and those metals they worked with such tender care. They were thinner than most, made only for ceremony.

Over it was placed his decorative golden armour, resplendent as the sun, and at his hip was buckled Orcrist. He then donned his finest jewellery and his crown. His blue fur cloak was fastened about his shoulders. He was ready.

Bilbo returned from the baths feeling more refreshed than he had in ages. The attendants following him ensured that Thorin was no longer in their chambers, then guided him to the clothes prepared for the day.

They were all silver and gold, and green, too; green as the grasses and hills of the Shire. It was but the first of the amendments made to the grand traditions of a dwarven wedding.

He fastened his faithful Sting by his side. His grey fur cloak was fastened about his shoulders. He was ready.

The great wide floor of the city had been cleared for the ceremony. A hundred circular tables filled the hall, a thousand chairs placed around them. It overflowed with the crowds of dwarves, hobbits, men, and even elves who had arrived. The company had a table all to themselves at the front.

Banners of silver and white hung from the cavernous ceiling and billowed gently in the wind from the open gates. Gold-wrought flowers with leaves of silver and brass decorated the tables, petals as delicate as their inspiration, interspersed with small potted plants. All was bedecked in the finest of silks and silvers.

Golden lamps were lit all along the path to the area for the reception. There, at the end of the hall, had been erected a raised dais upon which the couple would stand to be seen by all. An enormous silver arch was placed for them to stand under. It was an ancient work, one made by some of the first dwarves to enter the Lonely Mountain. It had stood to see the wedding of all Thorin’s ancestors before him. It was heavily inscribed with Dwarven words of love and trust.

Soon silence fell in the hall. The time had come, all could feel it.

From the far end of the hall came Balin, all in silver, with a book under one arm and a box under the other. He walked the great blue carpet laid upon the floor between the tables until he reached the dais. There he took his place beneath the arch, and waited.

Thorin and Bilbo emerged. All stood to watch them walk by. Such finery, some had never seen in their lives. The pair were bedecked head to toe in glittering metals and jewels; their hair was silken and freshly braided, heavy with silver beads; their faces were shining with a fierce joy. Today belonged to them.

They walked in slow steps down the plush carpet between the masses. They walked hand in hand, held at shoulder height. The gathered clapped as they walked past.

They saw the faces of those they loved as they walked. So many had come, many more than they could have anticipated. They had come to see their friends bonded in love.

There was Bard, now King of Dale, and his children. There Thranduil and his son, and a guard of Mirkwood elves. There Drogo and Primula Baggins, and Dora and Dudo and Falco, and Prisca and Posco and all his children. Dís, Dáin, even Gandalf stood, clearly visible among the sea of dwarves. Finally Dwalin, Fíli, Kíli, Óin, Glóin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, and Ori. All the company was there in their finest wear to stand by their friends.

Thorin and Bilbo reached the edge of the dais. They knelt at the base of the stairs, Balin descending to meet them. The dwarves fell silent, knowing what was to come, and the others followed their lead.

No sound was made. Only the wind was heard high overhead, rustling the banners.

A voice became known, and a second. They joined and were as one. Then they were apart again, one high and one low, humming a chord, and then they began to sing.

The words were of an ancient dwarven song. The tradition stretched back to before the dwarves kept records at all- passed down through the generations, standing fast against the test of time. It was a song of love and promise. It was a song of loyalty, and of strength, and of happiness. Yet for all its joyful words the tune was solemn.

Those in the crowd who did not speak Khuzdul simply attended to the artful craft of the song. The dwarves and Gandalf listened on, their hearts following the words they all knew from childhood. It was a song that pulled at the soul.

It had taken Bilbo months to learn. In all his time with Thorin he had learned the jealously guarded secret language of the dwarves, but this was still a monumental task. The song used ancient words no longer spoken. Its melody was simple yet the harmony complex. The most difficult part was that he was alone.

He and Thorin sang the same words yet their harmonies varied, leaving Bilbo’s part exposed at times. His heart jumped when he knew those moments came- but he held fast. He knew the words. He had practiced for months with Thorin beside him, over and over so there would be no mistake.

None there was.

As the song drew to a close they stood. Hands still clasped they helped each other up the few stairs. They stood under the arch and turned to face each other, joining their other hands. The song ended as they stared into each other’s eyes. The pride and joy that lived there was unmatched by any other on earth.

As their voices cut off the hall was immediately filled with applause. Shouts of encouragement and approval in both Dwarvish and Westron rained down upon them. Bilbo, for his part, was breathless with nerves. But the song was over. He had done it.

Their smiles were broad and they had eyes only for each other.

Balin behind them raised the book he held in his hands and all clapping and cheers fell silent again. All eyes were upon them.

“Today we are gathered to witness the binding together in eternal love the two that stand before us. Thorin Oakenshield, King Beneath the Mountain,” he paused, and there was an uproarious applause from the dwarves. The others in the crowd saw the custom and quickly joined in. “-and Bilbo Baggins, Strongheart.” Again the proud salute.

“They have braved the world and its perils to stand by each other through pain and hardship, but through peace and prosperity as well. They have fought by each other’s side and brought the other back from the brink of death itself. They have proven time and again nothing will separate them, for no matter the time it takes, they always find their way back to each other.

“I know no others who deserve each other so wholly or who love each other so deeply. It is my honour to oversee this union. For you are my dearest friends.” His voice became quieter at this time, thick with emotion. “And after everything, you truly deserve all the happiness in the world.” He paused to blow into a handkerchief before raising his voice again.

“Do you, Thorin Oakenshield, King Beneath the Mountain, promise to love this man for all your days?”

“Aye.”

“And to stand at his side through all that may come?”

“Aye.”

“And to be true to him in life and in death?”

“Aye!”

“Then let you be bound to him.” Balin nodded at Bilbo who, with the utmost care, removed a small wooden box from his tunic. Inside was his ring. He placed it on Thorin’s hand and the light caught the design and gem set within. It was a heavy ring with a wide band, the top carved to take the shape of the Grey Mountains to the north. At the front the ring raised to the high peak of the Lonely Mountain itself; there were engraved the gates to Erebor, and within laid a diamond. All along the back of the band were carved runes of love and honour and strength.

Thorin blinked away tears. He had never been prouder to wear anything in his life.

Balin turned again to Bilbo. “And do you, Bilbo Baggins, Strongheart, promise to love this man for all your days?”

“Aye.”

“And to stand at his side through all that may come?”

“Aye.”

“And to be true to him in life and in death?”

“Aye!”

“Then let you be bound to him.”

Thorin now pulled from his pocket the ring he had fashioned. It was smaller in all dimensions, yet far more intricate. A large emerald set in the ring was held on the left by small metal oak leaves and branches, just as those on the tree outside the gates, and on the right by three dragon talons. They met at the back to form a flat band.

They took each other’s hands again, rings glinting in the lamplight.

Balin smiled. “There is a second ceremony to be performed today.” Whispers arose. A second ceremony?

He leaned down and opened the large wooden box he had brought with him. From it was pulled a crown; forged in the dwarven style, it took the shape of a jagged line, forming a diamond shape in front to point over the wearer’s head. It was all black and gold, matching Thorin’s perfectly.

“Bilbo Baggins, Strongheart! Do you devote yourself to the care and protection of all dwarven people, in Erebor and beyond?”

“Aye.”

“Do you swear to serve us and guide us and honour our traditions?”

“Aye.”

“And do you swear to remain loyal to us in times of peril and woe?”

“Aye!”

“Then I crown thee! Hail, Bilbo Baggins, Strongheart, King Beneath the Mountain! Hail to the King!”

“HAIL TO THE KING!” The chorus of voices shook the walls around them with their strength. None save the company had known this was to come. Many were taken aback, or surprised, but all that knew Bilbo judged him worthy.

“I hail thee, King and King!” Balin cried. “Be as one forever more! HAIL TO THE KINGS!”

“HAIL TO THE KINGS!”

Thorin and Bilbo, hands still clasped tight, kissed. They kissed amidst the joyful cries of their fellows, to the joy of all their future days. A gentle shower of white and silver petals fell upon their heads.

They were laughing. Laughing, smiling, holding hands, knowing that they were forever bound to each other in deed and heart.

This was a day to celebrate.


	13. Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

The wagon bounced and rattled beneath them. The roads had become dilapidated as of late, it would seem, after the summer rains. Just as he had known it in his youth.

Bilbo cast his gaze around him at the Shire.

It was as it had always been- the grasses green and long, the trees tall and proud, leaves washing the ground and covering everything in a gentle layer to muffle all sound. Those very leaves hid the ruts and dips in the road that so jostled their wagon.

Thorin was at his side, taking his turn at the reins. Loaded in the wagon were provisions for all the company that followed behind them, their caravan of five weaving its way through the rolling hills.

Their proud numbers had shrunk over the years. It was a smaller party that returned to the Shire than had left; only ten rode. First Balin, then Dori, then Óin, and most recently Bifur had passed on. All remaining had grown older, most greyer. Yet they remained steadfast. They were as bound to each other as ever, and thus found themselves on one last journey to the hobbit home.

For it was Bilbo’s 111th birthday. In truth, the day was to celebrate his nephew, Frodo, now coming into adulthood at 33. But the two happened to be born on the same day and so a party was to be held celebrating the pair together.

The wagon train entered Hobbiton and became quite the spectacle. Never before had such a company been seen! For the last time the dwarves had come, it had been under cover of night, and none saw.

Gossip travels fast in the Shire and within the hour all knew of the dwarves’ coming. They had stopped at Bag End, of all places!

Yet Frodo was ready. He had known of his dear uncles’ arrival for months and awaited them eagerly, and all those who came with them. He greeted all the dwarves by name and his uncles with great hugs that nearly crushed him.

They sat up long into the night, crowded together in the living room of Bag End, passing around pipes of Shire pipeweed and Dale longleaf. Those of Erebor regaled Frodo with tales of old, of battles long ago. They told him the news from the east of the world, and in turn Frodo passed on that of the west.

He also told them of the plans for the party- to be held in two days from then. There would be an enormous cake, and much drink and food, and half the Shire was to come. The hobbits had all quite made fun of Frodo for believing that his estranged uncle would come out of the Misty Mountains to celebrate a birthday. Frodo was terribly excited to prove them wrong.

“You will make a speech, won’t you, Uncle?”

“A speech? Oh, no.”

The dwarves gave noises of disapproval.

“Oh come on, you all want a speech from me?”

“What else does a king do?” Fíli shot back. The others laughed.

“Fair enough. But do you think the hobbits want to listen to me talk?”

“Pay them no mind,” Thorin said. “Just speak to us. It is your day.” Bilbo shrugged and raised his glass.

“Alright, you’ve convinced me. I’ll give a speech!”

The company cheered. Frodo was particularly pleased. Alone in Bag End he had missed his uncles fiercely. He did not know how Bilbo had managed it all those years.

But now was not the time for sadness. Now was the time for a party.

The twenty-second of September was upon them in a flash. The streamers went up, the banner hung high.

**_Happy Birthday  
Bilbo and Frodo Baggins_ **

The dwarves made many a joke pretending not to recognise the name of Baggins, to which Bilbo rolled his eyes and laughed along. It was an old joke, to be sure, but one that was quite dear to them.

When evening came the company descended from their hide-away in Bag End. An uneasy silence fell over the gathered hobbits. Who could this crowd be, so rough and travel-worn? What did they want? Their jaws were agape when Frodo ran to the one unbearded member among them and hugged him tight.

“Uncle Bilbo! Finally!”

Bilbo? Could that really be Bilbo _Baggins?_ The hobbits pushed and jostled one another to get a better look.

He was old now, far older than any of them remembered. His hair was grey and his face leathery and wrinkled from long days atop the outer walls or on the Long Lake. That long grey hair was heavily beaded and braided to match the best, and atop it was sat his crown.

His clothes were identical to the rest of the dwarves. All was thick wool and diagonal cuts and layers of fur. At his hip was his ever-faithful Sting, and upon his finger his wedding ring.

But it was the crown that surprised them most. Even those who had been to the wedding all those years ago- and they were now few in number- barely believed it. Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire, and King of the Dwarves! They also heard a strange name passed about among them, ‘Strongheart.’ Dear goodness, they would never understand dwarves.

Gandalf the Grey arrived with a boom and a pop of fireworks. He embraced the hobbit-king and all the dwarves around him; it was lovely to see old friends again.

Soon the strangeness of the party guests faded to the honeyed taste of ale. All was merry. They danced and sang and drank, stories swapped and traded, new friends made. Bilbo breathed deep the Shire air. It was a smell he had thought he might never return to. Yet here he was, at his birthday party, with his husband and dearest friends around him.

It was all too soon that he was dragged onstage to give his speech. He laughed all the way, Frodo jokingly pulling on his arm. He took his place in front of the crowd and smiled. Very different from addressing the dwarf-lords in Erebor. His eyes found Thorin’s towards the middle of the crowd and his heart hummed.

The hobbits had all drunk too much to care about how he was dressed or who he brought with him as guests now. It was time for a speech!

“My dear Bagginses and Boffins!” Applause from the according groups. “Tooks and Brandybucks! Grubs, Chubbs, Hornblowers! Bolgers! Bracegirdles! Proudfoots!”

“ _Proudfeet!_ ” Came a cry from the crowd, drawing a laugh.

“And the gallant dwarves of Erebor! Today is my one hundred and eleventh birthday! And my dear nephew, Frodo, has finally come of age! Alas, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to live amongst such excellent and admirable hobbits, or such honourable and intrepid dwarves! I have spent half my life with each and seen the fine merits of both.

“I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.”

The hobbits looked between themselves trying to understand- had he just complimented or insulted them? The dwarves, on the other hand, bellowed with laughter. Bofur fell sideways off his seat, spilling ale all over himself, which only increased their mirth. Bilbo winked.

“I know many of you don’t know me well, or even at all. I haven’t spent much time here as of late. But to celebrate one’s birthday- and my eleventy-first no less!- with you all has truly been a joy.

“I, er-” Bilbo thumbed at his coat pocket. Inside his fingers brushed the cool metal of quite another ring than the one Thorin had given him. It was a simple band of gold. Yet far from simple it was.

“I have things to do, unfortunately. And so, though I’ve only just returned, I must be leaving again. A kingdom doesn’t run itself, you know!” Thorin snorted. Bilbo slipped the ring from out of his pocket and behind his back. “And so I’ll make this my final disappearing act. I bid you all a very fond farewell.

“Goodbye.”

He placed the ring on his finger and vanished.

The crowd jumped. There were cries of astonishment, not the least from the dwarves.

Bilbo scampered off the stage. Even in his old age he moved quickly. He dashed up Bagshot Lane and to Bag End. The door swung open and shut and Bilbo was inside.

He pulled off his ring, laughing to himself. He flipped it into the air with a giggle and popped it back in his pocket. He took off his heavy fur cloak and was just setting to make tea when a loud voice startled him.

“I suppose you think that was terribly clever.” Gandalf stood in the centre of the hall, his enormous frame filling it floor to ceiling.

“Come on, Gandalf. Did you see their faces? And Thorin thought I couldn’t surprise him anymore!” He chuckled as he filled the kettle.

“There are many magic rings in this world, Bilbo Baggins, and none of them should be used lightly.”

“It was just a bit of fun!” But under Gandalf’s stern gaze he lamented. He rolled his eyes. “Oh you’re probably right, as usual.” He began setting out all the tea cups and saucers he could find; Frodo had replaced the ones squirreled away after the auction.

Bilbo continued, “I do feel bad about leaving again. But Frodo’s a good lad, you’ve seen him. And maybe he’ll even come visit me again in Erebor… I’m leaving him some of my old things, as a birthday present. You’ve seen the mithril shirt? And my dear old Sting, I’ve no use for it anymore.”

“What about this ring of yours? Is that a present too?”

“Yes, yes. It’s in an envelope over there on the mantelpiece.” Bilbo waved a hand absently. Gandalf feigned belief and took a few slow steps to the fireplace. Then Bilbo drew up short. “No. Wait, it’s… here in my pocket.” He stuck a hand back in his coat and rubbed his fingers along the smooth familiar band. He pulled it out to admire its shining surface.

“Well. Isn’t that- isn’t that odd now? Yet, after all, why not? Why shouldn’t I keep it?”

“I think you should leave the ring behind, Bilbo. Is that so hard?” Gandalf’s voice was gentle. He feared the thing his friend held in his hands.

Bilbo turned to look up at Gandalf. “Well, no… and yes.” His eyes dropped back to the ring. “Now it comes to it, I don’t feel like parting with it. It’s mine, I found it, it came to me!”

The door swung open again. In came Thorin, the moonlight filling his hair and making it look as if it was spun silver. The worry dropped from his face to find Bilbo safely in the house, and with Gandalf no less.

“There you are! I thought you might’ve hidden yourself away in here.” He came to them and reached out a hand to Bilbo. He did not take it.

Concern returned to Thorin, slowly but surely. “Bilbo? Are you alright?”

“No, and it’s his fault!” Bilbo pointed an accusatory finger up at Gandalf.

“What’s going on?” Thorin asked.

“It’s mine,” Bilbo hissed. “My own. My precious…”

“Precious?” Gandalf and Thorin chorused.

“It’s been called that before, but not by you,” Gandalf said.

“What business is it of yours what I do with my own things?!” Bilbo retreated from them now, clutching the ring tight in his hand.

Thorin felt fear grip his heart for the first time in many years. There was a look upon Bilbo, a terrible look. It was one he knew. It was the same look he himself had worn when the dragon sickness was upon him. Wandering alone among the shining riches of the mountain, it was the only thing he saw reflected back at him.

“Bilbo, please-” Thorin tried.

“I think you’ve had that ring quite long enough.” Gandalf was firm now.

Bilbo’s eyes shot in panic back and forth between the two. His lip trembled, trying to form words. “You- you want it for yourselves!”

“ _BILBO BAGGINS!_ ” Gandalf roared. Both hobbit and dwarf shrank away from him now. His voice was supernaturally loud, the fire in its hearth growing suddenly dark. He was all they could see. “DO NOT TAKE ME FOR SOME CONJURER OF CHEAP TRICKS! I am not trying to rob you! I am trying to help you.” The fire returned and Gandalf’s voice became normal again.

The greedy golden light in Bilbo’s eyes had vanished. He saw again, and realised Thorin was there, staring at him in fear.

Thorin took a step closer, then another. Bilbo felt weak after such an outburst; he ran to Thorin’s arms and near collapsed in them. Thorin held him tight, a hand on his head, whispering quiet calming words in Dwarvish.

He gently moved to hold Bilbo at an arm’s length. “All our years together, I have loved you. You have seen me at my lowest point and still you loved me. It was you who saved me from it. I look upon you now and see not evil, but sickness, the same that once plagued me.

“I will help you, Bilbo, my love. Let me.”

Bilbo nodded tiredly.

Gandalf knelt to be at their level. He laid a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, just above where Thorin’s rested. “Trust me as you once did. Let it go.”

“You can do it,” Thorin said. He smiled, the reassurance there almost a physical presence.

Bilbo nodded once more. He pulled the ring from his pocket and held it out in his hand. Gold flashed in his eyes, a cruel fire; but it was tempered and shrank away. His hand shook. It slowly rotated, and the ring fell to the floor. It landed with a dull clank.

Bilbo let out a heavy breath of relief. It was done. He had done it.

Gandalf swept the ring with his robe into an envelope and placed it upon the mantle.

It was done.


	14. Chapter 14

EPILOGUE

That next day the dwarves and their kings left the Shire. Frodo waved them away with not a little sadness in his heart. He would miss them, his uncles the most. He must visit them again soon, far away in their mountain.

The company returned to Erebor and there lived out the rest of their days. The rule of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Strongheart was one that became legend. Beyond their unusual pairing, it was a time of unmatched peace and prosperity. The two ruled with a kindness unseen in the land for millennia, one that would not be seen again until the dawn of the Fourth Age.

When word was received of the final stand of Men against the might of Sauron, all rejoiced. There was feasting to be had in the mountain for over a week. They had so long defended their borders from roaming orcs and goblins and the terrible presence of Mordor, and now that threat was at an end.

There was then another hobbit to be celebrated in the great halls- Frodo Baggins, Ringbearer. Bilbo’s pride was unmatched.

But time was not kind to the hobbit-king. Without the ring, age caught up to him. Thorin too was feeling the weight of his years upon his shoulders. Gandalf came one last time to the dwarven halls with a proposition. He was now Gandalf the White, master of his craft.

He invited the pair to the Undying Lands in the west.

It was a sacred gift, one unheard of for those not of elven blood. So it was with great gratitude that the crown was passed on to Fíli and his new family. Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Strongheart, Kings Beneath the Mountain for over sixty years, left Erebor one final time.

They met Gandalf again on the shores of the Gulf of Lhûn. There were many they had once known; Elrond of Imladris, and Galadriel of Lothlórien, and Frodo. Frodo embraced his uncle and Bilbo saw through aged eyes the missing half of his nephew’s finger. It broke his heart to know even a little of the trials he had faced.

Bilbo had seen him grow up from afar; when he was born the boy was brought to see Erebor, and every once in a while would come to visit. When his parents passed away at age twelve, Bilbo offered to let him live in the mountain with him. But Frodo politely refused, saying his home was the Shire, and there were others there to look after him.

But he never forgot the mountains.

The great ships left the shores of Middle Earth and passed away into the West.

Bilbo and Thorin stood at the prow, feeling the wind upon their faces. There was no knowing what truly awaited them on the other side of the world.

But their hands were clasped tight and their hearts beat as one.

They had faced many adventures together. Now came the last.

They would face it as one.


End file.
